I just finished reading “Tradition and the Individual Talent.” TS Eliot was a great man. Who says that man-worship is wrong? He writes:
“Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But ofcourse only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to escape from these things.”
He knew. He was not afraid.
And yet, when I read him, I hear his unmistakable voice. I know that it is him even before I see who it is. I hear his precision that is both impersonal and fluid. It speaks.
Also, Auden writes the following:
“For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its own making…”
That’s the comfort, isn’t it? And the release, the end. Just the simple and unerring fact that there cannot be another. Because it makes nothing happen, it is. Because it makes nothing happen, what can replace it? Ofcourse, Keats did say that beauty is irrevocable. Enduring. The frontier.