/lit/ - Literature

>>20032019
people who respected and admired Wagner's poetry:
>Whitman, Baudelaire, Swinburne, Mallarme, Nietzsche, Dujardin, Yeats, Proust, Jung, Weininger, Joyce, Eliot, Schmitt, Junger, Auden, Adorno, Scruton etc.

people who didn't:
>some random anon

It's okay to be filtered.

people who respected Wagner's poetry:
>Whitman, Baudelaire, Swinburne, Mallarme, Nietzsche, Dujardin, Yeats, Jung, Joyce, Eliot etc.

people who didn't:
>some random new york times journalist

April Fool’s!

>I have thought of dealing myself with the question of Fascism, and have recently worked through four or five books on the subject. The more I read about the more uninteresting it seems; but it might be worthwhile to say even that. What I am trying to do is to find out whether there is any idea in Fascism at all; if not it might be at least worth while to say so. The books on the subject seem to be of two types: Those written by people who wish to prove either how virtuous or how wicked the regime has been; and those who wish to prove that Fascism is the realisation of a magnificent political ideal. The former have a certain scandalous interest, the latter being extremely dull.

filtered

Stefan Molyneux's "universally preferable behaviour"?

> Of Frithjof Schuon's first book, The Transcendent Unity of Religions T.S. Eliot wrote: "I have met with no more impressive work in the comparative study of Oriental and Occidental religion."

Into the trash this closeted Anglican pseud goes!

https://voca.ro/1bvTgi1fH3kj

>A penny for the old Guy!

Seething neoliberals

>[For T.S. Eliot, t]he small regional community, homogeneous in race and preferably in language, is the proper cultural unit. We are even told that "it would appear to be for the best that the great majority of human beings should go on living in the place in which they were born." In the essays on culture and Christian society much attention is paid to Welsh and Scottish cultural nationalism as a "safeguard" against the tendency "to lose their racial character." In After Strange Gods, Eliot, addressing a Virginian audience, expresses sympathy with the conservative neo-agrarian movement of Southern intellectuals [the Southern Agrarians], and remarks: "I think that the chances for a re-establishment of a native culture are perhaps better here than in New England. You are farther away from New York; you have been less industrialised and less invaded by foreign races; and you have a more opulent soil."

>In [his] poetry the mingling of races and the sense of the lost pedigree symbolise a disintegration of culture, like the ethnical miscellany in "Gerontion" and the woman in The Waste Land who claims to be "echt deutsch" because she comes from Lithuania. A more squalid mongrelism may be represented by Sam Wauchope in Sweeney Agonistes, whom his American friends boast to be "a real live Britisher," but who appears to be nothing more than a Canadian. In "Gerontion" and elsewhere the Jew embodies the rootlessness of the modern metropolis, and Virginia, with a different problem on its hands, is informed that "reasons of race and religion combine to make any large number of free-thinking Jews undesirable." Behind this is a belief that "blood kinship" and attachment to the soil are features of a "harmony with nature" which a genuine society has, "unintelligible to the industrialized mind."

A penny for the Old Guy

>Thinks citations are for plebs

Based or cringe?

>>14003801
>Right wing ideology believes that what produces the most GDP is what is best
Yikes!

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

How can one man be so based?

What the fuck was hus problem? Why did he hate the Romantics and Milton?

A woman drew her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wings
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.

What did he mean by this? Of all the passages in the wasteland, this is the only one that I feel like I never understood at any level.

Is he America's best literary figure?