Interviewer : why did you want to read about this nasty old man anyway?
PB : I was feeling more ignorant than usual. He's mentioned perpetually by all manner of people. Possibly the problem is that I can't understand any of the arsey abstract folderol in Four Quartets and also he was supposed to be a rightwing antisemitic creep. Why isn't he already on the scrapheap of literary history, a giant embarrassment like his fascist friend Pound?
Interviewer : Do you talk like this all the time?
PB : No.
***
Later that same decade :
It gets worse. On p 105 the author is telling us that Eliot's vicious antisemitism should not make us overlook his equally vile misogyny. That's the author speaking - I assume she's something of a fan. She points out that this antisemitic misogynist set himself up as a moral authority and, indeed, was taken seriously by the great and the good. Is this disgusting? Well, in MY little universe, yes I think it is. On the plus side, you also get airyfairy witterings about nothing which comprise Eliot's mystical Christian musings.
THE VERY POOR SEX LIFE OF THE FAMOUS ANTISEMITE
It turns out that the course of modern poetry would probably have fundamentally changed if Eliot hadn't married Vivienne Haigh-Wood. The minute they got married she had an affair with Bertrand Russell, that silver-tongued devil, and liked him a lot more than TS. Oops, she married the wrong guy. After that was over she spent ten years in the grip of one mystery ailment after another (it didn't stop her joining the British Fascist Party), culminating in such deranged behaviour in private and in public that Eliot left the house and spent many years simply avoiding her.
He would wear clown gear and paint his face orange and stick on a big red nose and he would unicycle past her as she was battering at the marital door yelling "Come out you highbrowed bastard, I'll gut ye from stem to stern, I'll wear your entrails with pride so help me Bob". She tried everything to track him down, including putting an advert in The Times!
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN? Writes inscrutable poems and is thought to be in hiding from ME.
It's funny, but it's really sad. Eventually her brother had her committed to an asylum. In all of this horribleness Eliot wrote much allegedly - no allright, really - importantly miserable poetry. Now consider what would have happened if he'd married a major babe like Rebecca West and enjoyed a ten year shagtastic bonkfest with venturesome trips to discreet nudist colonies in Montserrat. No Waste Land! No Four Quartets! Bliss!
IN THE END LEAVES FALL FROM GUTTERS LIKE AN ETHERISED BADGER ON AN OPERATING TABLE
Sad conclusion: once again I'll have to admit defeat. There's a long section devoted to Four Quartets, and I thought Lyle Gordon would be able to at least show me the way into this clearly great poem, but at the beginning of this interpretation she says:
"Eliot sets himself the question : how do we live in time so as to conquer time?"
What does that even mean? Later on:
"So Eliot set himself to negate the senses and all worldly notions of success in order to become a vacuum for grace to fill."
Well, this is where I check out. None of these terms mean anything to me - conquer time? negate the senses? grace? Might mean something to the Archbishop of Canterbury but it cuts no ice in Devonshire Road, Sherwood, Nottingham.
So farewell, TSE, back to the attic you go, I could say it was nice knowing you, but you know something, it wasn't.
DVD EXTRA :
CELEBRITY DEATH MATCH # 3 : ANDREA DWORKIN VERSUS T S ELIOT
The 6 foot 4 Eliot, confident of victory, gazes down at his 5 foot 2 and grotesquely obese opponent and begins by sneering and quoting Jew-hating Early Church Fathers like Origen, Eusebius and John Chrysostotum. Dworkin kicks his feet away, he crumples like a flimsy argument, she smashes him in the mouth and stomps on his head, putting an end to his repulsiveness within 25 seconds. Man, that was quick. A huge fight breaks out in the crowd between those who say that the personality and life of the author are irrelevant where great art is concerned and those who want to call a guy a big fat antisemite if he is one and relegate his works thereby to a lesser status. They flail at each other using copies of Ted Hughes' collected works and reproductions of Picasso. The police are called, they pile in with riot shields, each one bearing a large portrait of Jean Genet. Over in the ring, Dworkin using power tools has sliced Eliot's corpse up into four quartets.