Educated by Tara Westover
August 17, 2018
The Good Girls Revolt: How the Women of Newsweek Sued Their Bosses and Changed the Workplace
July 26, 2018
The Girl and the Grove by Eric Smith
June 4, 2018
The Sun Does Shine: How I Found Life and Freedom on Death Row by Anthony Ray Hinton
May 16, 2018
I'll Be Gone in the Dark: One Woman's Obsessive Search for the Golden State Killer by Michelle McNamara
May 2, 2018
Red Clocks by Leni Zumas
April 30, 2018
An American Marriage by Tayari Jones
March 28, 2018
Bellevue: Three Centuries of Medicine and Mayhem at America's Most Storied Hospital by David M. Oshinsky
March 26, 2018
The Other Einstein by Marie Benedict
March 23, 2018
Code Girls: The Untold Story of the American Women Code Breakers of WWII by Liza Mundy
January 8, 2018
November 12, 2014
On this day in 1948, T.S. Eliot was awarded the Nobel prize in literature for his impact on modern poetry.
To honor this ocassion, here's a little sumpin' sumpin' from Mr. Eliot...
Preludes by T.S. Eliot
The winter's evening settles down
With smells of steaks in passageways.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves across your feet
And newpapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On empty blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all the muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul is constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed's edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
And clasped the yellowed soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock,
And short square fingers stuffing pipes
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
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