It is impossible to say just what I mean!1 cries a frustrated J. Alfred Prufrock. The within a word, unable to speak a word (CP, p. 21), laments another little old man, lightly dipped in Lancelot Andrewes. Thine is / Life is / For Thine is (CP, p. 59), voice of The Hollow Men stammers to recall. But I've gotta use words when I talk to you (CP, p. 83), Sweeney Agonistes tries to explain. It was (you may say) satisfactory (CP, p. 69), Wise Man barely manages to admit. That was a way of putting it-not very satisfactory, exasperated spirit of East Coker ponders, then ponders again: You say I am repeating / Something I have said before. I shall say it again. / Shall I say it again? (CP, p. 127). I daresay there are few in Eliot's audience who would argue that scarcely a poem or fragment of poet's exists which does not dramatize, in some significant fashion of technique or substance, his own statement that each venture into expression of poetry Is a new beginning, a raid on inarticulate With shabby equipment always deteriorating In general mess of imprecision of feeling, Undisciplined squads of emotion. (CP, p. 128) Of course, no one would want to credit Eliot with inventing this brand of apprehending ineffable effable / Effanineffable (CP, p. 149), although so adept was his manipulation that he could parody both motif and his skill in The Naming of Cats, and usually make us feel copyright was in Old Possum's name. No, as reverent as Eliot was of tradition in general, so because of him and his personal practice are we at least more aware of individual tradition to which the raid
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