T.S. Elliot

[Darius]

The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock

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 Michaelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the windowpanes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle upon the windowpanes
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 windowpanes;
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 hundred indecisions,
And for hundred visions and revisions,
Before the talking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go,
Talking of Michaelangelo.

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 groing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My nectie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin,
(They will say: "But how is arms and legs are thin!")

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions that a minute will reverse.
For I have known them 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 e 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 ton he wall,
Then how should I begin
To split out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all,
Arms that are bracaleted and whote and bare,
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so disgress?
Arms that lie around a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And how should I presume?
And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk thorugh narrow streets
And watched the smoke that raises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out the windows?

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttlings across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evenings, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep...tired...of it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But through I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet - and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And should it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worthwhile,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball,
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say, "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all,"--
Should say,"That is not what I meant, at all."
"That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worthwhile,
After the sunset and dooryards and sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skurts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impposible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worthwhile
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And tourning towards the window, should say:
"That is not it, at all,
Tha is not what I meant, at all."

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous,
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old... I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do i dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not thing they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seawards on the waves,
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea,
By sea-girls wreathed in seaweed, red and brown,
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

[green]

The hollow men

I

We are the hollow men

we are the stuffed men

Leaning together

Headpiece filled with straw.Alas!

Our dried voices, when

We whisper together

Are quiet and meaningless

As wind in dry grass

Or rat's feet on broken glass

In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without color,

Paralyzed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed

With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom

Remember us - if at all - not as lost

Violent souls, but only

As the hollow men

The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams

In death's dream Kingdom

These do not appear

There, the eyes are

Sunlight on a broken column

There, is a tree swinging

And voices are

In the wind's singing

More distant and more solemn

Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer

In death's dream Kingdom

Let me also wear

Such deliberate disguises

Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves

In a field

Behaving as the wind behaves

No nearer -

Not that final meeting

In the twilight Kingdom

III

This is the dead land

This is cactus land

Here the stone images

Are raised, here they receive

The supplication of a dead man's hand

Under the twinkle of a fading star

Is it like this

In death's other Kingdom

Waking alone

At the hour when we are

Trembling with tenderness

Lips that would kiss

Form prayers to broken stone.

IV

The eyes are not here

There are no eyes here

In the valley of dying stars

In this hollow valley

This broken jaw of our lost Kingdoms

In this last of meeting places

We grope together

and avoid speech

Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless

The eyes reappear

As the perpetual star

Multifoliate rose

Of death's twilight Kingdom

The hope only

Of empty men

V
Here we go round the prickly pear

Prickly pear prickly pear

Here we go round the prickly pear

At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea

And the reality

Between the motion

And the act

Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception

And the creation

Between the emotion

And the response

Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire

And the spasm

Between the potency

And the existence

Between the essence

And the descent

Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

For thine is

Life is

For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.

[green]

Portrait of a Lady

I

Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon
You have the scene arrange itself - as it will seem to do -
With "I have saved this afternoon for you";
And four wax candles in the darkened room,
An atmosphere of Juliet's tomb,
Prepared for all things to be said, or left unsaid.
We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole
Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and fingertips.
"So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul
Should be resurrected only among friends
Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom
That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room."
-And so the conversation slips
Among velleities and carefully caught regrets
Through attenuated tones of violins
Mingled with remote cornets
And begins.

"You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,
And how, how rare and strange it is, to find
In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,
[For indeed I do not love it... you knew? You are not blind!
How keen you are!]
To find a friend who has these qualities,
Who has, and gives
Those qualities upon which friendship lives.
How much it means that I say this to you-
Without these friendships - life, what cauchemar!"

Among the windings of the violins
And the ariettes
Of cracked coronets
Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins
Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own,
Capricious monotone
That is at least definite "false note."
-Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance,
Admire the monuments,
Discuss the late events,
Correct our watches by the public clocks.
Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks.



II

Now that lilacs are in bloom
She has a bowl of lilacs in her room
And twists one in her fingers while she talks.
"Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know
What life is, you who hold it in your hands";
(slowly twisting the lilac stalks)
"You let it flow from you, you let it flow,
And youth is cruel, and has no remorse
And smiles at situations which it cannot see."
I smile, of course,
And go on drinking tea.
"Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall
My buried life, and Paris in the Spring,
I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world
To be wonderful and youthful, after all."

The voice returns like the insistent out-of-tune
Of a broken violin on an August afternoon:
"I am always sure that you understand
My feelings, always sure that you feel,
Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand.

You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles' heel.
You will go on, and when you have prevailed,
You can say: at this point may a one has failed.
But what have I, but what have I, my friend,
To give you, what can you receive from me?
Only the friendship and the sympathy
Of one about to reach her journey's end.

I shall sit here, serving tea to friends..."

I take my hat: how can I make cowardly amends
For what she has said to me?
You will see me any morning in the park
Reading the comics and the sporting page.
Particularly I remark
An English countess goes upon the stage.
A Greek was murdered at a Polish dance,
Another bank defaulter has confessed.
I keep my countenance,
I remain self-possessed
Except when a street piano, mechanical and tired,
Reiterates some won-out common song
With the smell of hyacinths across the garden
Recalling things that other people have desired.
Are these ideas right or wrong?



III

The October night comes down; returning as before
Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease
I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door
And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees.
"And so you are going abroad; and when do you return?
But that's a useless question.
You hardly know when you are coming back,
You will find so much to learn."
My smile falls heavily among the bric-a-brac.

"Perhaps you can write to me."
My self-possession flares for a second;
This is as I had reckoned.
"I have been wondering frequently of late
(But our beginnings never know our ends!)
Why we have not developed into friends."
I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remark
Suddenly, his expression in a glass.
My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark.

"For everybody said so, all our friends,
They all were sure our feelings would relate
So closely! I myself can hardly understand.
We must leave it now to fate.
You will write, at any rate.
Perhaps it is not too late.
I shall sit here, serving tea to friends."

And I must borrow every changing shape
To find expression... dance, dance
Like a dancing bear,
Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape,
Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance-

Well! And what if she should die some afternoon,
Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose;
Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand
With the smoke coming down above the housetops;
Doubtful, for a while
Not knowing what to feel or if I understand
Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon...
Would she not have the advantage, after all?
This music is successful with a "dying fall"
Now that we talk of dying-
And should I have the right to smile?

[Darius]

KJo poezi ose mini requiem eshte shkruar ne vitin 1992 nga nje djal i ri 20-vjecar i quajtur Dario ne nje nga spitalet e semundjeve infektive ne qytetin te Verones, Itali. 45 dite mbas shkrimit te kesaj poezie, autori vdiq nga AIDS. Mund te perkthehet por do e humbiste shume bukurine qe ka ne gjuhen origjinale:

Sedutto guardo le altre persone
che come me aspettano il momento
in qui une voce dica avanti.
Come triste questo corridorio colorato di malinconia.
E mi perdo in ricordi, nei volti antichi di amici
pasati per di qua.
Amici che non sono piu !
Faccio faticha a trattenere alcune lacrime
che vorrebbero esplodere assieme all'urlo
che mi contorce la pancia.
Allora guardo fuori, guardo gli alberi,
i raggi del sole e penso ad une volto
all volto, di Cristo !
E con tutta l'anima chiedo une po
di forza per andare avanti
e per sorridere....

[TiLoNcE]

muve mka pelqy shum kjo:

A Little Bird

In alien lands I keep the body
Of ancient native rites and things:
I gladly free a little birdie
At celebration of the spring.

I'm now free for consolation,
And thankful to almighty Lord:
At least, to one of his creations
I've given freedom in this world!

[TiLoNcE]

Andrew Marvell


Eyes and TearsHow wisely Nature did decree,


With the same Eyes to weep and see!
That, having view'd the object vain,
They might be ready to complain.

And since the Self-deluding Sight,
In a false Angle takes each hight;
These Tears which better measure all,
Like wat'ry Lines and Plummets fall.

Two Tears, which Sorrow long did weigh
Within the Scales of either Eye,
And then paid out in equal Poise,
Are the true price of all my Joyes.

What in the World most fair appears,
Yea even Laughter, turns to Tears:
And all the Jewels which we prize,
Melt in these Pendants of the Eyes.

I have through every Garden been,
Amongst the Red,the White, the Green;
And yet, from all the flow'rs I saw,
No Honey, but these Tears could draw.

So the all-seeing Sun each day
Distills the World with Chymick Ray;
But finds the Essence only Showers,
Which straight in pity back he powers.

Yet happy they whom Grief doth bless,
That weep the more, and see the less:
And, to preserve their Sight more true,
Bath still their Eyes in their own Dew.

So 'Magdalen',* in Tears more wise
Dissolv'd those captivating Eyes,
Whose liquid Chains could flowing meet
To fetter her Redeemers feet.

Not full sailes hasting loaden home,
Nor the chast Ladies pregnant Womb,
Nor 'Cynthia' Teeming show's so fair,
As two Eyes swoln with weeping are.

The sparkling Glance that shoots Desire,
Drench'd in these Waves, does lose it fire.
Yea oft the Thund'rer pitty takes
And here the hissing Lightning slakes.

The Incense was to Heaven dear,
Not as a Perfume, but a Tear.
And Stars shew lovely in the Night,
But as they seem the Tears of Light.

Ope then mine Eyes your double Sluice,
And practise so your noblest Use.
For others too can see, or sleep;
But only humane Eyes can weep.

Now like two Clouds dissolving, drop,
And at each Tear in distance stop:
Now like two Fountains trickle down:
Now like two floods o'return and drown.

Thus let your Streams o'reflow your Springs,
Till Eyes and Tears be the same things:
And each the other's difference bears;
These weeping Eyes, those seeing Tears.


Andrew Marvell

[TiLoNcE]

Here I Love You


Pablo Neruda


Here I love you
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other

The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
sometimes a sail. High, high stars.

Oh the black cross of a ship.
Alone.
Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.
Here I love you.

Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.
The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.
The moon turns its clockwork dream.

The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.

[TiLoNcE]

A Dedication to my Wife


To whom I owe the leaping delight

That quickens my senses in our wakingtime

And the rhythm that governs the repose of our sleepingtime,

The breathing in unison



Of lovers whose bodies smell of each other

Who think the same thoughts without need of speech

And babble the same speech without need of meaning.



No peevish winter wind shall chill

No sullen tropic sun shall wither

The roses in the rose-garden which is ours and ours only



But this dedication is for others to read:

These are private words addressed to you in public.
TS Eliot

[TiLoNcE]

T.S.ELIOT


Lune de Miel


ILS ont vu les Pays-Bas, ils rentrent à Terre Haute;
Mais une nuit d’été, les voici à Ravenne,
A l’aise entre deux draps, chez deux centaines de punaises;
La sueur aestivale, et une forte odeur de chienne.
Ils restent sur le dos écartant les genoux
De quatre jambes molles tout gonflées de morsures.
On relève le drap pour mieux égratigner.
Moins d’une lieue d’ici est Saint Apollinaire
En Classe, basilique connue des amateurs
De chapitaux d’acanthe que tournoie le vent.

Ils vont prendre le train de huit heures
Prolonger leurs misères de Padoue à Milan
Où se trouvent la Cène, et un restaurant pas cher.
Lui pense aux pourboires, et rédige son bilan.
Ils auront vu la Suisse et traversé la France.
Et Saint Apollinaire, raide et ascétique,
Vieille usine désaffectée de Dieu, tient encore
Dans ses pierres écroulantes la forme précise de Byzance.

[TiLoNcE]

T.S.ELIOT

The Hippopotamus




THE BROAD-BACKED hippopotamus
Rests on his belly in the mud;
Although he seems so firm to us
He is merely flesh and blood.

Flesh and blood is weak and frail,
Susceptible to nervous shock;
While the True Church can never fail
For it is based upon a rock.

The hippo’s feeble steps may err
In compassing material ends,
While the True Church need never stir
To gather in its dividends.

The ’potamus can never reach
The mango on the mango-tree;
But fruits of pomegranate and peach
Refresh the Church from over sea.

At mating time the hippo’s voice
Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
But every week we hear rejoice
The Church, at being one with God.

The hippopotamus’s day
Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
God works in a mysterious way—
The Church can sleep and feed at once.

I saw the ’potamus take wing
Ascending from the damp savannas,
And quiring angels round him sing
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.

Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
Among the saints he shall be seen
Performing on a harp of gold.

He shall be washed as white as snow,
By all the martyr’d virgins kist,
While the True Church remains below
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.

[StormAngel]

T.S Elliot-Aunt Helen

Miss Helen Slingsby was my maiden aunt,
and lived in a small house near a fashionable square
Cared for by servants to the number of four.
Now when she died there was a silence in heaven
And silence at the end of her street.
The shutters were drawn and the undertaker wiped his feet-
He was aware that this sort of thing had occurred before.
The dogs were handsomely provided for,
But shortly afterwards the parrot died too.
The Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantelpiece,
And the footman sat upon the dining-table
Holding the second housemaid on his knees-
Who had always been so careful while her mistress lived.

[POthuajPOet]

T. S. Eliot

La Figlia Che Piange

O quam te memorem Virgo ...


Stand on the highest pavement of the stair--
Lean on a garden urn--
Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair--
Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise--
Fling them to the ground and turn
With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:
But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.

So I would have had him leave,
So I would have had her stand and grieve,
So he would have left
As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,
As the mind deserts the body it has used.
I should find
Some way incomparably light and deft,
Some way we both should understand,
Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.

She turned away, but with the autumn weather
Compelled my imagination many days,
Many days and many hours:
Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.
And I wonder how they should have been together!
I should have lost a gesture and a pose.
Sometimes these cogitations still amaze
The troubled midnight and the noon's repose.

[POthuajPOet]

Conversation Galante

I observe: "Our sentimental friend the moon!
Or possibly (fantastic, I confess)
It may be Prester John's balloon
Or an old battered lantern hung aloft
To light poor travellers to their distress."
She then: "How you digress!"

And I then: "Some one frames upon the keys
That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain
The night and moonshine; music which we seize
To body forth our vacuity."
She then: "Does this refer to me?"
"Oh no, it is I who am inane."

"You, madam, are the eternal humorist,
The eternal enemy of the absolute,
Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist!
With your aid indifferent and imperious
At a stroke our mad poetics to confute--"
And--"Are we then so serious?"

[POthuajPOet]

Hysteria

As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her
laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were
only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill. I
was drawn in by short gasps, inhaled at each momentary
recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her
throat, bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles. An
elderly waiter with trembling hands was hurriedly
spreading a pink and white checked cloth over the rusty
green iron table, saying: "If the lady and gentleman
wish to take their tea in the garden, if the lady and
gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden ..." I
decided that if the shaking of her breasts could be
stopped, some of the fragments of the afternoon might
be collected, and I concentrated my attention with
careful subtlety to this end.

[Cupke_pe_Korce]

mire, mire, c'to na thote ndonjeri ne lidhje me keto me lart se per copy & paste te tere ta zote dalin.

[Leila]

Per Hysteria -- totally describing Anne Sexton, I think (whether he knew her or not). Otherwise, I don't know; I don't laugh.

[Cupke_pe_Korce]

in general, what made the man turn to religion, I never fully understood. why don't people today (I mean people like him) turn to religion for salvation?

and then, was he ever influenced by Bertrand Russell? `cause T.S. Eliot is religious, but not naive.

[Leila]

You just ignored me.

OK, I'll elaborate about Hysteria. Titulli sugjeron histerine nga se thuheshe nje here e qemoti se vuanin femrat sepse ishte shpjegim teper i lehte dhe i volitshem per t'u besuar (let me not remind you per shpikjet neper zyrat e doktorreve per te "qetesuar" histerine, but what lucky, lucky women they were... lol.) Femra eshte shume e fuqishme, she "bruises" him me "ripples" nga e qeshura (imagine that!) S'do thosha qe ka rene ne dashuri me te, eshte shkrim per hiret e grave in general (jo vec njeres mgjs nje mjafton t'i kete futur idene e poezise), se si ai eshte krejt i pafuqishem perballe femrave, dhe poeti eshte perhumbur tek e qeshura (nje nga hiret e grave, arme seduction) dhe perkund ndjesira ambivalente (but nonetheless enchanted) per seksin femer.

Te pergjigjem postit te dyte, that's what I was saying about Jung tek nje teme tjeter before the religious zealots got ahold of my comment and twisted it the way they felt fit -- knowledge does not enrich a person, it is not key to human perseverance... religion is ("If we set against our own self-justifications, the meaning of our own lives as it is formulated by our reason, we cannot help but see our poverty.") It is natural (and healthier, too) to believe in myths, that there is someone out there watching what injustices are being done to you and turning a blind eye to all of your sins (on some level I believe God will send Humie to Hell and me to Heaven lol). Nuk kam lexuar librin e Bertrand Russell "Why Am I Not a Christian" kshq I'm treading on thin ice me pergjigjen time. I know him through history, not math, philosophy or literature. I don't like him because the man exudes confidence he doesn't have throughout his life (i.e. his incompentence in his 4 marriages), e pastaj i bie kokes. Plus, o icik too idealist per shijen time (me gjithe socializmin demokrat, e yadda yadda yadda). But he's got a point: I, too, don't know whether to call myself an atheist or an agnostic.

Who is "people today like him" that haven't turned to religion for salvation? I didn't even know he was religious to begin with. But his anti-semitic streak should have raised red flags for me.

P.S.: Portrait of a Lady. What pity lilacs are a sign of insolence and arrogance.

[Cupke_pe_Korce]

Po jo mi dreq jo. Nuk te morra vesh thuaj. I mean, pse Ane Sexton dhe jo Vivien? Kjo e fundit ishte tamam neurotike, edhe ka shume te ngjare te kete qene "food for thought" (them une gjithsesi). A ka rene ne dashuri? Mua me duket ca si e trembur kjo pjesa; ketij femrat sikur i ngjallin frike...nje frike te lezeme though. E, nese frika ka ndonje lidhje me dashurine, ndoshta edhe ka rene. :)

Eshte me se e vertete qe mitet jane te domosdoshme, po pse pikerisht tek feja dhe jo spiritualiteti (like yates for example, that turned to paganism). Mbase edhe gaboj but it seems to me he is trying to revive that faith in christianity.

I have no objections for the rest of the post...your honor (lol)

ps. kur thashe te tjeret, kisha parasysh qe ai eshte nje nder te paktet qe i kthehet fese (since dante aligeri perhaps); e ndoshta po mendoja ekzistencialistet a ku di une.

[POthuajPOet]

Ashtu sic e kuptoj une, eshte Eliot i cili ka nje "cast histerie" dhe jo gruaja. Pra, histeria i referohet atij vete... sepse personat histerike kane prirje te "imitojne", te identifikohen ose "te behen njesh" me persona te tjere.

I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and being part of it...
...lost finally in the dark caverns of her throat...

P.S Rregulli eshte qe komentet shkruhen ne shqip...megjithate, ju te dyja me duket se do shpikni nje gjuhe te ndermjetme (shqip/anglisht)... por duket e pamundur... (lol)