T.S. Eliot (1888–1965) was a poet, essayist, and editor. His poems in this issue are drawn from The Poems of T.S. Eliot: Collected and Uncollected Poems, which has just been published in the UK by Faber and Faber and in the US by Johns Hopkins University Press. (January 2016)
Spleen Sunday: this satisfied procession Of definite Sunday faces; Bonnets, silk hats, and conscious graces In repetition that displaces Your mental self-possession By this unwarranted digression. Evening, lights, and tea! Children and cats in the alley; Dejection unable to rally Against this dull conspiracy. And Life, a little bald and …
Before we allow ourselves to be gratified or vexed, as the case may be, by Alfred North Whitehead’s rehabilitation of religion, it might be well to enquire what sort of religion his writings are likely to further, and whether that sort is intrinsically valuable. It is a matter which all earnest atheists and Christians should take to heart.
It is difficult to know what the Elizabethans stood for, if for anything, or what they were trying to do. And in Chapman, for one, as in Donne for another, I seem to find an internal incoherence, as of an era of transition and decay. It is to illustrate this lack of unity that I wish to contrast Chapman with the mediaeval—Dante—and with the modern—Dostoevski—with both of whom he has something in common.