A delightful lecture--as Professor Ricks always puts forward. I enjoy his demeanor, which is not unlike that of how I imagine Eliot. Rick's talk is delightful in its "humanity" about the man some have imagined in inhuman. It's ironic that Sir Ricks has done more to ensure the demise and loathing of Eliot in the academy than about anyone, short of Harold Bloom. What is fascinating though is how, unlike Bloom, Ricks genuinely likes Eliot. Maybe even loves him. Yet thanks to his laser-like focus on Eliot's potential anti-semitism Ricks' fame that has come from that observation, Eliot is a few steps away from a ban by all "well-meaning people" because of Eliot's anti-semitism. Few will remember anything positive Ricks has ever said of Eliot--all that will likely go the way of the humanities in general. What will survive is the rotting corpse of Eliot. I hope I am wrong, and that both the amazing work of Eliot and Ricks will thrive in the future.
T.S. Eliot is among the difficult artists, the self-contradictory, his works seem to have been written despite all that he held most dear. In a way Eliot is like Dostoyevsky, in that the works are in contradistinction to what the man valued; rather, the characters and personae repudiate the artist himself. The challenge is to believe that these works of art do not actually represent the deepest character of the men who created them. There is in everything Eliot wrote the knell of doom; we won't be fooled by any "knot of fire" and "rose" at the end of "Little Gidding!" Nor by any rationalization about Aristophanes re: Sweeney Agonistes!
And to think you edited this drivel. What tosh the first draft must have been!! Eliot was a man in full, neither evil nor good, like all men in all places. Like you.
@@timh.7283Cry about it. Eliot, like Dostoevsky, repudiated himself at length. Maybe you're an egomaniac, but does it really make you feel better to assert that everyone else must be too?
Art should be judged by the art and not by the personality of the artist. It is a grave error to consider anything but the art itself. Anything outside the art is totally irrelevant. The Eliot poetry stands head and shoulders above any twentieth century and twenty first century poetry I am aware of. I haves been reading it for over fifty years. Woody Allen has suffered in a similar way.It is shameful and moronic. The critic squats on the windowsill anxious to spew his venom.
