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T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets: East Coker | "In my beginning is my end"

East Coker gives a message of hope that the English communities would survive through World War II. In a letter dated 9 February 1940, Eliot stated, "We can have very little hope of contributing to any immediate social change; and we are more disposed to see our hope in modest and local beginnings, than in transforming the whole world at once. We must keep alive aspirations which can remain valid throughout the longest and darkest period of universal calamity and degradation." The poem served as a sort of opposite to the popular idea that The Waste Land served as an expression of disillusionment after World War I, even though Eliot never accepted this interpretation. World War II itself has a direct mention in only a few of Eliot's writings. However, World War II does affect the poem, especially with the disruption caused by the war being reflected within the poem as a disruption of nature and heaven. The poem describes society in ways similar to The Waste Land, especially with its emphasis on death and dying. The place is connected to where Eliot's family originates, and, as such, is also the place where his family will symbolically end. In the second part of the poem, nature is experiencing disorder, and it is suggested that humans too may burn, and also that reason, knowledge, and science cannot save people. The errors of our past become the reasons for war and conflict and we need to become humble in order to escape the destruction. A cooperative audiovisual production, of the actors, by the actors, for the actors. Filmed in Kypseli, Athens. Featuring Sophia Manoli and directed by Manos Cizek. All music composed by Joseph Earwicker and is royalty free:   / joseph-earwicker   Voice over from Julian Fischer's YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yNOrL... Manos Cizek IMDb Profile ► https://www.imdb.com/name/nm5241062/ Sophia Manoli IMDb Profile ► https://www.imdb.com/name/nm3155215/ For further reading of T.S. Eliot's poetry: http://www.davidgorman.com/4quartets/ In my beginning is my end. [...] There is a time for building And a time for living and for generation And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto. O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark, The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant, The captains, merchant bankers, eminent men of letters, The generous patrons of art, the statesmen and the rulers, Distinguished civil servants, chairmen of many committees, Industrial lords and petty contractors, all go into the dark [...] And we all go with them, into the silent funeral [...] As, in a theatre, the lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness, And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away- Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about; Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing- I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope. The wounded surgeon plies the steel That questions the distempered part; Beneath the bleeding hands we feel The sharp compassion of the healer's art Resolving the enigma of the fever chart. The whole earth is our hospital Endowed by the ruined millionaire, Wherein, if we do well, we shall Die of the absolute paternal care That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere. [...] In spite of that, we call this Friday good. [...] In my beginning is my end. [...] And so each venture Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate With shabby equipment always deteriorating [...] The fight to recover what has been lost And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions That seem unpropitious. [...] Home is where one starts from. As we grow older The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated Of dead and living. Not the intense moment Isolated, with no before and after, But a lifetime burning in every moment And not the lifetime of one man only But of old stones that cannot be deciphered. There is a time for the evening under starlight, A time for the evening under lamplight (The evening with the photograph album). Love is most nearly itself When here and now cease to matter. Old men ought to be explorers Here or there does not matter We must be still and still moving Into another intensity For a further union, a deeper communion Through the dark cold and the empty desolation, The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.