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- Pridružio: 07 Avg 2008
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- Gde živiš: VII kat
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T. S. Eliot - Four Quartets
Miodrag Pavlović ::T.S. Eliot je pesnik težak, ali ne i zagonetan: većina nejasnosti koje iskrsavaju prilikom prvog čitanja njegovih poema imaju određena, od pesnika predviđena, razjašnjenja, pa su i dejstva njegovih mozaičkih tekstualnih površina unapred planirana. Predmeti u njegovoj pesničkoj perspektivi su uglavnom bez senčenja, nekad i bez volumena, ali je njihova aluzivnost ponekad suviše dalekosežna. Ako u Eliotovim vizijama ima snage za metamorfozu, njihova sklonost je da se metamorfoziraju u pojmove ili u filosofsko-religijske propozicije.
Burnt Norton
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
...
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
...
_ _ _ _ _, both a new world
And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
The resolution of its partial horror.
...
Investing form with lucid stillness
Turning shadow into transient beauty
With slow rotation suggesting permanence
Nor darkness to purify the soul
Emptying the sensual with deprivation
Cleansing affection from the temporal.
Neither plenitude nor vacancy._ _ _
...
Descend lower, descend only
Into the world of perpetual solitude,
...
_ _ _ _ _ Words strain,
cra ck and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still. Shrieking voices
Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,
Always assail them. The Word in the desert
Is most attacked by voices of temptation,
The crying shadow in the funeral dance,
The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera.
East Cocker
The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets
Useless in the darkness into which they peered
Or from which they turned their eyes. _ _ _ _
...
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.
...
Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing—
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
...
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
...
Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam's curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.
...
The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.
...
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.
...
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
...
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.
The Dry Salvages
The tolling bell
Measures time not our time, rung by the unhurried
Ground swell, a time
Older than the time of chronometers, older
Than time counted by anxious worried women
Lying awake, calculating the future,
Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel
And piece together the past and the future,
Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception,
The future futureless, before the morning watch
When time stops and time is never ending;
And the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning,
Clangs
The bell.
....
Of wistful regret for those who are not yet here to regret,
Pressed between yellow leaves of a book that has never been opened.
And the way up is the way down, the way forward is the way back.
You cannot face it steadily, but this thing is sure,
That time is no healer: the patient is no longer here.
....
_ _ _ _ _These are only hints and guesses,
Hints followed by guesses; and the rest
Is prayer, observance, discipline, thought and action.
The hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is Incarnation.
Little Gidding
Either you had no purpose
Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured
And is altered in fulfilment. There are other places
Which also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws,
Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city—
But this is the nearest, in place and time,
Now and in England.
...
So I assumed a double part, and cried
And heard another's voice cry: 'What! are you here?'
Although we were not. I was still the same,
Knowing myself yet being someone other—
....
The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre of pyre—
To be redeemed from fire by fire.
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