REFLECTIONS: Mr. Eliot

(9 of 10)

His collected poems fill only a thin volume—he believes that a poet ought to write as little as possible—but they are as different from most other 20th Century poetry as the sound of bronze-pure bells from the shrilling of a telephone. An age which reads in a hurry and likes to understand familiar meanings with headline speed has accused Eliot of being obscure; much of his poetry does require close attention, but none of it is muddled and much of it is as catchy as a song hit.

Is Eliot a great poet? His own age would not call him so, and doubts that posterity will. In his revulsion from vulgarity and muddled sentimentality, he has perhaps moved away too far from the heat of emotion and the sweat of action. His attitude toward the U.S. is significant. He remembers it fondly, sometimes signs his name Tom (Missouri) Eliot, and likes to sing U.S. folk ballads, though he has a hard time staying on key. But he does not seem to understand America (although he comes to the U.S. on frequent visits), shrinks from its materialistic gusto.

If it ever was, civilization is nothing now to write poems about. T. S. Eliot is a thinking and a feeling man, and a Christian ; he is not a happy man. The commentator on a tragedy cannot be expected to sound like a radio announcer lip-deep in molasses. He may sometimes crackle, but he will never snap or pop.

Eliot's indirect influence is wide and deep, but incalculable. He has shown two generations of poets how to write. He has shown that a man can be both'clever and religious. More interesting than Eliot's influence on others, however, is the influence of others (notably his Christian predecessors) on Eliot. One compelling reason why the audiences crowd his Cocktail Party is that they recognize it, in the sense that people always recognize a compelling restatement of the old and certain truths. They like Eliot for being clever, and at the same time clear; but what counts most is the common sense, the humility and the hope expressed in such lines as these:

The best of a bad job is all any of us

make of it,—Except of course, the saints . . .