I’ve put a little more work into my bedside Poet’s Corner. I repurposed some typewriter cases to create a small bookcase.
Last night I worked through some Seamus Heaney. I read his “Oysters,” and I’m not entirely sure what’s going on there. Greek myths, oysters, and some rude Romans. I liked his use of the word disgorged. That or another poem used the word tench. Had to look that up: freshwater fish in Europe.
Tonight, as I was stacking my shelves, I stopped to leaf through T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets. Who doesn’t love Eliot? I have the first part of “Burnt Norton” memorized. I opened my copy, one of my few rare books, and began to read:
Among others, Henri Bergson had an influence on how Eliot wrote about time. As I read, however, my mind became tired slogging through abstractions. This is how life works. Work, daily work–the job job–saps energy. I may not be building with my hands, but teaching can be exhausting. So here’s my reply to Mr. Eliot:
Anyway, the first page of my copy has a note from a Letty and a Kathy to a friend who evidently enjoyed a good cigarette–as evidenced from these sallow pages.
I’ll wrap up this book again. I don’t like to handle it too often, time being the great destroyer.