Book Review : 'The Waste Land and Other Poems' by T.S Eliot

1922 was one interesting year. Thriving like a clear sky amidst the darkest of days between the two world wars, 1922 germinated as a tiny pod constituted out of the distressed imagery and materialisation of the minds of several artists and authors around the world. T.S Eliot was one among them and his poems 'The Waste Land' or 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufock' have indeed stood the test of time.

I got my copy of the edition I will be reviewing, one published by Faber and Faber - and unchanged since 1972 fascinates the reader's mind. How relatively simple sentences when sequenced (in apparently a non-sequenced manner) could create complex flavours and portrayals of utterly delicate as well as the darkest of emotions is indeed important. 

Now, personally, I am not very fascinated by Eliot's poetry compared to that of Maria Rilke or Pablo Neruda or even Arthur Rimbaud. A pungent efficacy in convincing people through stronger tones, stronger undertones and solid use of the weapon language imparts to you is what attracts me best. Eliot's style, on that context, still lingers some pretty romantic ideas that I personally have never been much attracted to. 


(Photograph Source : Abebooks)

'The Waste Land', on the contrary, despite it's intricately poetic constitution and eloquently descriptive nature is somewhat symbolic regarding the expression of strength ; strength of a kind very intimately linked with the urge of existence. 

'The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufock' has a certain cognitive rhythm to it I don't think any poetic enthusiast would at least be able to ignore with ease. But it is 'Two Choruses of the Rock' where you begin to find absolute modernist vibes, which is enlightening enough to steer you through some of Eliot's other works. 'Landscapes', on the other hand, have a flowing texture, a serene outlook and an overall compact,crisp depiction of figments of imagination the poet had encapsulated beautifully. 

Summing it up, for people who are intrigued by classic English literature and yet have a knack for contemporary European literature, or both ; or say, would prefer Fellini and Kubrick over the French New Wave directors, you would love
this compilation. For others, like me, who have grown up loving the work of Octavio Paz or Nazim Hikmet or Neruda, I think this particular book is still worth a read. There are instances that might have descended into modern forms of psychedelia and some very valid constituents in post-modernist poetry in the later years. 

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