Selected Poems, T.S. Eliot

This is one very battered book! It's hard to explain, even to myself, but there was a time about twenty years ago when I opened this book every day, carried it with me everywhere, through Central America, on the subway, everywhere, every day for years. I had this big purse back then, huge really, a ten-inch wide tube that I slung over my shoulder and kept stocked with objects even as large as full-size cans of air-freshener, multiple books, and a copy of Eliot, of course. I'd joke about it- "Never leave home without your Eliot", I'd say, but I can't remember why I thought it was so important, except now, reading it again and hearing its howl of impotent despair, it does feel cleansing, cathartic. It's like we ride Prufrock through the half-deserted streets of his dark mind, down dead-end lanes, tortured but resigned because we know, somewhere, somehow, there is utter beauty, and it is forever denied us. But he leaves us with a tiny taste of that beauty, and it is divine.
I bought this copy new, I think at the World's Biggest downtown. It was an integral part of my life, In fact, I found it stuffed with photos of my first niece as a baby, so I think I'll hold on to it.
Score - +2 (5 saved, 3 released)