For a long time now I've been meaning to read T.S. Eliot's the Waste Land. I have now done so, and I'm not sure I have anything useful to say just yet. I think I need to read it again. It is not exactly the kind of work that can be made sense of after just a cursory reading. It definitely shows the interesting mind that Eliot had to an even greater extent than the other things I've read of his.
I think I'll try to read it again in the next few days, and then maybe try to conquer the Four Quartets, his last great work.
Regarding my post from last night, I figured studying Eliot is one of the most fruitful things I can do when contemplating writing. Few others have ever had such a mastery of the classic form while freely being able to drift off into free form poetry. Unlike most poets of his age (and our own), his is still a poetry that retains a sense of meter and rhyme — something to drive the reader forward, and at times, faster and faster and faster into the abyss.
Hmm. I guess I had something to say after all.