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“T. S. Eliot is the Archbishop of literary modernism. Weird, lugubrious, pallid with green face-powder, completely affected, this native Missourian turned tortured Bloomsbury aesthete turned prim Anglican (the reinventions of self call to mind Bob Dylan in reverse, the personality shrinking rather than expanding) became the voice calling in the wilderness of post-World War I Europe. “The Waste Land” was the “Howl”, the “White Album” of youthful intellectuals in the 1920s. Every young writer...”
“I am not an Eliot fan. Who wants to read 20 pages of foot notes? Eliot is a snob who worries more about impressing his audience with his extensive knowledge of literature rather than writing something worth reading.”
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