I wandered–after summer work on a hot July day, between grade 12 and 1st year university–into the inconveniently-located, 1905-built Winnipeg Library on William Avenue. It was a magical two-storey library donated by that great philanthropist Andrew Carnegie.
I had come there long before when I was in about grade 5 and my Dad’s brother had some books to return on a dark fall night. The building lit up that night as we approached it, and, inside, introduced me to stacks and stacks of books and literature, which were to lead later to my careers as a high-school English teacher, a Canadian textbook author, and a poet.
Anyway, back to that hot summer evening, as I perused the literature shelves till one book (the very same distinctly-colored edition as below) and one author’s name (T.S. Eliot) leaped out at me and cried “Take me out.”
And, later, inside at home, the many unforgettable revelations of “Preludes”, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”, “Portrait of a Lady”, “The Journey of the Magi” (which had fascinated me in grade 12), “The Waste Land”, “Ash Wednesday”, “The Hollow Men” and “Four Quartets”.
This past week, in the appropriate, relevant midst of a COVID, wasteland-style Edmonton, I returned to the unforgettable-covered contents again in search of connection, understanding, and appreciation, and found it all there, of course.
This coming week, I will return to bedtime listening of Jeremy Irons’ splendid readings of all the same poems.
Anyone looking for great poetry about consciousness, modern alienation and isolation, communication breakdown, cultural values, civilization, spiritual realities, nature and mankind will still find much to reward, inform, and connect with in Eliot’s classic collection.