tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273248.post-1147696081947176282006-05-15T20:57:00.000+09:002006-05-16T23:53:34.680+09:00<blockquote>Garlic and sapphires in the mud<br />Clot the bedded axle-tree.<br /> -- TS Eliot, from <em><a href="http://www.poetseers.org/nobel_prize_for_literature/t__s__eliot/library/burnt_norton"target="_blank">Burnt Norton</a></em></blockquote><br />Back in high school, I hated English lit. The classics, and their characters, seemed constipated. Symbolism and hidden meanings flew by me without even a tickle. Deconstructing text did nothing but break my concentration and cause my thoughts to flitter elsewhere. For me, reading was purely about escapism, and harping on why Teresa <em>really</em> liked to paint yellow pumpkins was not the way to get lost in a story.<br /><br />Unfortunately, the passage above came up in conversation yesterday and is now driving me nuts. I spent a good hour searching online for a nice, straightfoward answer, but <em>no one</em> seems able to agree on what Eliot really meant. <br /><br />Won't someone shed some light on my illiterate soul?<span class="shortpost">brownbreadicecreamnoreply@blogger.com