Ted Lasso, Season 3, Episode 7 "The Strings That Bind Us" || Robert Frost, "The Road Not Taken" || Ted Lasso, Season 3, Episode 6 "Sunflowers" || Ted Lasso, Season 3, Episode 12 "So Long, Farewell" || T. S. Eliot, "Burnt Norton" || Jeanette Winterson, "Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit" || Ted Lasso, Season 1, Episode 1 "Pilot"
Audio: "Burnt Norton" by Lana Del Rey, a rendition of the original poem "Burnt Norton" by T.S. Eliot.
Where do I even start? Paris has wholly shaped me in ways I never imagined. We refer to Paris as the city of love, but I'm now more inclined to call it the city of art - which only leaves more room for love in your heart. There is so much to contemplate and appreciate in frequenting the vast array of art museums here - from the Louvre, Musée d’Orsay, Musée de l’Orangerie, the Centre Georges Pompidou, and many more. Not only has my perspective on art expanded, but so has my worldview. That’s because art is truly everywhere in this city; art can be found in the walkable streets amidst the rich architecture, the fashionable outfits seen in daily life, and even the exquisite decor in stores and when you cheekily peek into Parisian appartments!
There's always something new to discover in Paris, I'm almost saddened at the thought of the things I've yet to discover or missed. The treasures to unveil in Paris move far beyond the typical tourist hotspots we all know and love. I am obsessed with Parisian boutiques; they are chic and unique (that unintentionally rhymed) in the best way possible. One of my favourites is La Tonkinoise à Paris, located in the 11th arrondissement. This particular arrondissmenet is the best in Paris to be honest, it holds a special place in my heart as I had the wonderful opportunity of living there, so perhaps you can say that I am somewhat biased. Still, I can confidently say that this animated, hip and creative neighbourhood is one everyone should have the chance to explore.
La Tonkinoise à Paris, owned by the lovely Chantal, is my favourite hidden gem in Paris. I had the pleasure of befriending Chantal as I ended up frequenting her store one too many times; I've garnered quite a collection over time. This boutique offers a wide range of eccentric and sustainable jewellery, with her earring creations being the show stoppers, in my opinion. Her jewellery is composed of rings, pearls, brooches, charms, and watches, all unearthed in flea markets and recycled. I love that every piece of jewellery indeed is a unique piece. The decor changes based on the season and theme of her new collections, making it an ever-changing and exciting shopping experience. This is honestly the best jewellery store I have ever been to in my life! I wish the pictures I took could do the jewellery and the boutique's decor justice, but it simply won't, I'm afraid.
Now, onto food, I genuinely need to figure out where to start here. My favourite authentic French restaurant would have to be 'Le Potager du Père Thierry', located in Montmartre. Although it's incredibly small, I love the cosy vibe; I feel like I can enjoy delicious food with friends without feeling surrounded by strangers. Surprisingly, it's also very quiet (yet packed) - I guess the food is just too distracting.
As of late, my favourite non-french restaurant has to be 'Big Black Cook' (let's ignore how inappropriate that pun is, though funny). It's located in the 2nd arrondissement and serves Caribbean food, my friend claims that it was the best meat she's had!
For brunch, I recommend Café Méricourt in the 11th arrondissement. Their green Eggs & Feta are absolutely incredible and quite innovative as far as brunch places go.
As for a boulangerie - seriously, anywhere, literally anywhere in Paris, go to your nearest bakery; there need not be a big fuss - you're in for a scrumptious baked treat regardless!
I'm ever so grateful for the chance to have lived in Paris for an extended period; you cannot appreciate Paris in its entire splendour from a mere short-term visit. The city is an actual work of art; art is everywhere in the city, from the street performers and musicians, the light filters through the trees, the city's many architecturally rich bridges, the picturesque cafés and boulangeries, the beautifully presented food, the way that the city's many different neighbourhoods each have their own distinct character and vibe. In Paris, art is everywhere.
Words strain,
Crack, and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still. Shrieking voices
Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,
Always assail them.
Tom Hiddleston Q&A for 'Loki': T. S. Eliot's poetry as inspiration for the series (2023.11.21)
In the interview Tom talks about how he used T. S. Eliot's poetry as inspiration for the series. You can watch the SAG-AFTRA Q&A here.
Tom also gave the Four Quartets to Natalie Holt: "And on the set, when I was there in Pinewood filming, I got to chat to Tom. He was on the end of filming his part, and then I was starting the journey of the music, so we had this really lovely conversation," said Holt. "He gave me a book of poetry that had inspired him on Season 2. So, yeah, it was just great. He was saying, “Oh, I'd love to email you some thoughts that I've had, just if they might be useful.” She went on to say, "It's a T.S. Eliot book, the Four Quartets. It’s about time. Tom's a very thoughtful actor and thoughtful man, and I think he put so much into the character. He's a producer on the show, so just a big hand in how the show is, is due to Tom, I think."
I: "Burnt Norton"
“Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past."
Full poem
youtube
youtube
IV: "Little Gidding"
"We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time."
Time and the bell have buried the day,
The black cloud carries the sun away.
Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis
Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray
Clutch and cling?
Chill
Fingers of yew be curled
Down on us? After the kingfisher's wing
Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still
At the still point of the turning world.
Burnt Norton V
Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,
Can words or music reach
The stillness, as a Chinese jar still
Moves perpetually in its stillness.
Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,
Not that only, but the co-existence,
Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still. Shrieking voices
Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,
Always assail them. The Word in the desert
Is most attacked by voices of temptation,
The crying shadow in the funeral dance,
The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera.
The detail of the pattern is movement,
As in the figure of the ten stairs.
Desire itself is movement
Not in itself desirable;
Love is itself unmoving,
Only the cause and end of movement,
Timeless, and undesiring
Except in the aspect of time
Caught in the form of limitation
Between un-being and being.
Sudden in a shaft of sunlight
Even while the dust moves
There rises the hidden laughter
Of children in the foliage
Quick now, here, now, always—
Ridiculous the waste sad time
Stretching before and after.
"Do not let me hear
Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,
Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,
Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless."
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden.
“Words strain/ crack, and sometimes break under the burden/ under the tension, slip, slide, perish/decay with imprecision will not stay in place/ will not stay still.”
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
Round the corner. Through the first gate,
Into our first world, shall we follow
The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
There they were, dignified, invisible,
Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool.
Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
[TL:DR as I age and I am "Being" differently, more present, different poems of his speak to me differently yet still eloquently]
I was 15 when I discovered the poetry of Thomas Stearns Eliot within the *Norton Anthology of Poetry.* Nearly 50 years later, I'm reading him completely differently. Back then, I was smitten by "The Hollow Men," which can still be read as quintessential teenage angst:
===
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed 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.
===
It ends famously, in italics:
===
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.
===
I discovered that I had to memorize Eliot before I could begin to make sense of his writings.
Next came "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." I created a verb, "to Prufrock," which is to take the notion of the most modest of molehills and turn it into something so massive and overwhelming that to take that action would disturb the universe, which could not be dared, because it wouldn't have been worth it and because the would-be protagonist was so insignificant anyway that even if he attempted to do so it would have been completely misunderstood.
But then, glossing over "The Waste Land" until much later, I found "Burnt Norton," the first of his 4 Quartets. I endeavored to memorize the complete works of T.S. Eliot before I graduated high school, but after much of "Burnt Norton," my brain was full.
But it is "Burnt Norton" that still speaks to me today, as it is about presence, and time. It was written after a walk through the garden outside the mansion of the name with Emily Hale, "The Hyacinth Girl" of "The Waste Land," written for her, the woman he did not marry, but was nonetheless in love with whom he had created her to be 15 years earlier. We create the idea of who the other people are in our life. He was in love at the time, he would later write, not with Ms. Hale, but rather with the "ghost" of the Emily he knew decades earlier.
It begins:
===
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
===
A lament, and yet acknowledging how fruitless it is to mourn the road not taken or a future the will not be embraced.
He ends the first section of the poem:
===
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
===
*Always* present.
Later in the poem:
===
At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
===
He can't place it in time because it is always present -- the still point of the turning world, the in-between of past and future.
The second part ends:
===
Time past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time
But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,
The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
Be remembered; involved with past and future.
Only through time time is conquered.
===
There is more to the poem. He brings in religion and damnation, evoking Dante. Some might read my perceptions of these poems and paraphrase a line from "Prufrock" and protest:
"That is not what he meant at all
That is not it at all."
But "The Hollow Men", as brilliant as it still is with its memorable haunting lines, nor longer speaks for me. For decades I identified with Mr. Prufrock, and while it is still an amazing poem which I likely will still be able to recite when I can't remember my own name, he no longer resembles me, nor I him.
But now, as I aspire towards Being, and Presence, I am conscious to not be in time, for all emotion is temporal, either as laments or nostalgia for the past, or as apprehension or excitement for the future. To be fully present is to be at the still point of the turning world....