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Extrait

Chapter 1

PART I

PAID ON BOTH SIDES

A Charade

To Cecil Day-Lewis

Characters

LintzgarthNattrass

John NowerAaron Shaw*****

DickSeth Shaw

George****The Spy—Seth’s Brother

WalterBernard

KurtSeth’s Mother***

CulleyAnne Shaw

Stephen**

Zeppel—John Nower’s Servant

Number Six

Sturton

Joan—Mother of John Nower

Trudy***

Father Christmas*

The Doctor

Bo****

Po*****

The Man-Woman

The Doctor’s Boy**

The Photographer*

The Announcer*

The Chief Guest*

The Butler*

The Chorus

The starred parts should be doubled

[No scenery is required. The stage should have a curtained-off recess. The distinction between the two hostile parties should be marked by different coloured arm-bands. the chorus, which should not consist of more than three persons, wear similar and distinctive clothing.]

[Enter trudy and walter.]

trudy: You’ve only just heard?

walter: Yes. A breakdown at the Mill needed attention, kept me all morning. I guessed no harm. But lately, riding at leisure, Dick met me, panted disaster. I came here at once. How did they get him?

trudy: In Kettledale above Colefangs road passes where high banks overhang dangerous from ambush. To Colefangs had to go, would speak with Layard, Jerry and Hunter with him only. They must have stolen news, for Red Shaw waited with ten, so Jerry said, till for last time unconscious. Hunter was killed at first shot. They fought, exhausted ammunition, a brave defence but fight no more.

walter: Has Joan been told yet?

trudy: Yes. It couldn’t be helped. Shock, starting birth pangs, caused a premature delivery.

walter: How is she?

trudy: Bad, I believe. But here’s the doctor.

[Enter doctor.]

Well, Doctor, how are things going?

doctor: Better thanks. We’ve had a hard fight, but it’s going to be all right. She’ll pull through and have a fine infant as well. My God, I’m thirsty after all that. Where can I get a drink?

walter: Here in the next room, Doctor.

[Exeunt. Back curtains draw. joan with child and corpse.]

joan:

Not from this life, not from this life is any

To keep; sleep, day and play would not help there,

Dangerous to new ghost; new ghost learns from many,

Learns from old termers what death is, where.

Who’s jealous of his latest company,

From one day to the next final to us,

A changed one, would use sorrow to deny

Sorrow, to replace death? Sorrow is sleeping thus.

Unforgetting is not today’s forgetting

For yesterday, not bedrid scorning,

But a new begetting,

An unforgiving morning.

[Baby squeals.]

O see, he is impatient

To pass beyond this pretty lisping time:

There’ll be some crying out when he’s come there.

[Back curtains close.]

chorus:

Can speak of trouble, pressure on men

Born all the time, brought forward into light

For warm dark moan.

Though heart fears all heart cries for, rebuffs with mortal beat

Skyfall, the legs sucked under, adder’s bite.

That prize held out of reach

Guides the unwilling tread,

The asking breath,

Till on attended bed

Or in untracked dishonour comes to each

His natural death.

We pass our days

Speak, man to men, easy, learning to point,

To jump before ladies, to show our scars:

But no,

We were mistaken, these faces are not ours.

They smile no more when we smile back:

Eyes, ears, tongue, nostrils bring

News of revolt, inadequate counsel to

An infirm king.

O watcher in the dark, you wake

Our dream of waking, we feel

Your finger on the flesh that has been skinned,

By your bright day

See clear what we were doing, that we were vile.

Your sudden hand

Shall humble great

Pride, break it, wear down to stumps old systems which await

The last transgression of the sea.

[Enter john nower and dick.]

john nower: If you have really made up your mind, Dick, I won’t try and persuade you to stop. But I shall be sorry to lose you.

dick: I have thought it all over and I think it is the best thing to do. My cousin writes that the ranch is a thoroughly good proposition. I don’t know how I shall like the Colonies but I feel I must get away from here. There is not room enough . . . but the actual moving is unpleasant.

john nower: I understand. When are you thinking of sailing?

dick: My cousin is sailing to-morrow. If I am going I am to join him at the Docks.

john nower: Right. Tell one of the men to go down to the post-office and send a wire for you. If you want anything else, let me know.

dick: Thank you.

[Exit dick. Enter zeppel.]

zeppel: Number Six wishes to see you, sir.

john nower: All right, show him in.

[Enter number six.]

Well, what is it?

number six: My area is Rookhope. Last night at Horse and Farrier, drank alone, one of Shaw’s men. I sat down friendly next till muzzed with drink and lateness he was blabbing. Red Shaw goes to Brandon Walls to-day, visits a woman.

john nower: Alone?

number six: No, sir. He takes a few. I got no numbers.

john nower: This is good news. Here is a pound for you.

number six: Thank you very much, sir.

[Exit number six.]

john nower: Zeppel.

zeppel: Sir.

john nower: Ask George to come here at once.

zeppel: Very good, sir.

[john gets a map out. Enter george.]

john nower: Red Shaw is spending the day at Brandon Walls. We must get him. You know the ground well, don’t you, George?

george: Pretty well. Let me see the map. There’s a barn about a hundred yards from the house. Yes, here it is. If we can occupy that without attracting attention it will form a good base for operations, commands both house and road. If I remember rightly, on the other side of the stream is a steep bank. Yes, you can see from the contours. They couldn’t get out that way, but lower down is marshy ground and possible. You want to post some men there to catch those who try.

john nower: Good. Who do you suggest to lead that party?

george: Send Sturton. He knows the whole district blindfold. He and I as boys fished all those streams together.

john nower: I shall come with you. Let’s see: it’s dark now about five. Fortunately there’s no moon and it’s cloudy. We’ll start then about half-past. Pick your men and get some sandwiches made up in the kitchen. I’ll see about the ammunition if you will remember to bring a compass. We meet outside at a quarter past.

[Exeunt. Enter kurt and culley.]

kurt: There’s time for a quick one before changing. What’s yours?

culley: I’ll have a sidecar, thanks.

kurt: Zeppel, one sidecar and one C.P.S. I hear Chapman did the lake in eight.

culley: Yes, he is developing a very pretty style. I am not sure though that Pepys won’t beat him next year if he can get out of that double kick. Thanks. Prosit.

kurt: Cheerio.

[Enter walter and trudy.]

walter: Two half pints, Zeppel, please. [To kurt.] Can you let me have a match? How is the Rugger going?

kurt: All right, thank you. We have not got a bad team this season.

walter: Where do you play yourself?

kurt: Wing 3Q.

walter: Did you ever see Warner? No, he’d be before your time. You remember him don’t you, Trudy?

trudy: He was killed in the fight at Colefangs, wasn’t he?

walter: You are muddling him up with Hunter. He was the best three- quarter I have ever seen. His sprinting was marvellous to watch.

zeppel (producing Christmas turkey): Not bad eh?

trudy (feeling it): Oh a fine one. For tomorrow’s dinner?

zeppel: Yes. Here, puss . . . gobble, gobble . . .

trudy (to walter): What have you got Ingo for Christmas?

walter: A model crane. Do you think he will like it?

trudy: He loves anything mechanical. He’s so excited he can’t sleep.

kurt: Come on, Culley, finish your drink. We must be getting along.

[To walter.] You must come down to the field on Monday and

see us.

walter: I will if I can.

[Exit kurt and culley.]

trudy: Is there any news yet?

walter: Nothing has come through. If things are going right they may be back any time now.

trudy: I suppose they will get him?

walter: It’s almost certain. Nower has waited long enough.

trudy: I am sick of this feud. What do we want to go on killing each other for? We are all the same. He’s trash, yet if I cut my finger it bleeds like his. But he’s swell, keeps double shifts working all night by flares: His mother squealed like a pig when he came crouching out.

Sometimes we read a sign, cloud in the sky,

The wet tracks of a hare, quicken the step

Promise the best day. But here no remedy

Is to be thought of, no news but the new death;

A Nower dragged out in the night, a Shaw

Ambushed behind the wall. Blood on the ground

Would welcome fighters. Last night at Hammergill

A boy was born fanged like a weasel. I am old,

Shall die before next winter, but more than once shall hear

The cry for help, the shooting round the house.

walter: The best are gone.

Often the man, alone shut, shall consider

The killings in old winters, death of friends.

Sitting with stranger shall expect no good.

Spring came, urging to ships, a casting off,

But one would stay, vengeance not done; it seemed

Doubtful to them that they would meet again.

Fording in the cool of the day they rode

To meet at crossroads when the year was over:

Dead is Brody, such a man was Maul.

I will say this not falsely; I have seen

The just and the unjust die in the day,

All, willing or not, and some were willing.

Here they are.

[Enter john nower, george, sturton and others. The three speak alternately.]

Day was gone, Night covered sky,

Black over earth, When we came there,

To Brandon Walls, Where Red Shaw lay

Hateful and sleeping, Unfriendly visit.

I wished to revenge, Quit fully

Who my father at Colefangs valley,

Lying in ambush, Cruelly shot,

With life for life.

Then watchers saw They were attacked,

Shouted in fear, A night alarm

To men asleep, Doomed men awoke,

Felt for their guns, Ran to the doors,

Would wake their master Who lay with woman,

Upstairs together, Tired after love.

He saw then There would be shooting

Hard fight.

Shot answered shot, Bullets screamed,

Guns shook, Hot in the hand,

Fighters lay, Groaning on ground

Gave up life. Edward fell,

Shot through the chest, First of our lot,

By no means refused fight, Stephen was good,

His first encounter, Showed no fear,

Wounded many.

Then Shaw knew We were too strong,

Would get away Over the moor,

Return alive, But found at the ford

Sturton waiting, Greatest gun-anger,

There he died, Nor any came,

Fighters home, Nor wives shall go

Smiling to bed. They boast no more.

[stephen suddenly gets up.]

stephen: A forward forward can never be a backward backward.

george: Help me put Stephen to bed, somebody. He got tight on the way back. Hullo, they’ve caught a spy.

voices outside: Look out. There he is. Catch him. Got you.

[Enter kurt and others with prisoner.]

kurt: We found this chap hiding in an outhouse.

john nower: Bring him here. Who are you?

stephen: I know him. I saw him once at Eickhamp. He’s Seth Shaw’s brother.

john nower: He is, is he. What do you come here for? You know what we do to spies. I’ll destroy the whole lot of you. Take him out.

spy: You may look big, but we’ll get you one day, Nower.

[Exeunt all but john nower, stephen following.]

stephen: Don’t go, darling.

[john nower sits. A shot outside followed by cheers.]

[Enter zeppel.]

zeppel: Will you be wanting anything more to-night, sir?

john nower: No, that will be all thank you.

zeppel: Good night, sir.

john nower:

Always the following wind of history

Of others’ wisdom makes a buoyant air

Till we come suddenly on pockets where

Is nothing loud but us; where voices seem

Abrupt, untrained, competing with no lie

Our fathers shouted once. They taught us war,

To scamper after darlings, to climb hills,

To emigrate from weakness, find ourselves

The easy conquerors of empty bays:

But never told us this, left each to learn,

Hear something of that soon-arriving day

When to gaze longer and delighted on

A face or idea be impossible.

Could I have been some simpleton that lived

Before disaster sent his runners here:

Younger than worms, worms have too much to bear.

Yes, mineral were best: could I but see

These woods, these fields of green, this lively world

Sterile as moon.

chorus:

The Spring unsettles sleeping partnerships,

Foundries improve their casting process, shops

Open a further wing on credit till

The winter. In summer boys grow tall

With running races on the froth-wet sand,

War is declared there, here a treaty signed;

Here a scrum breaks up like a bomb, there troops

Deploy like birds. But proudest into traps

Have fallen. These gears which ran in oil for week

By week, needing no look, now will not work;

Those manors mortgaged twice to pay for love

Go to another.

O how shall man live

Whose thought is born, child of one farcical night,

To find him old? The body warm but not

By choice, he dreams of folks in dancing bunches,

Of tart wine spilt on home-made benches,

Where learns, one drawn apart, a secret will

Restore the dead; but comes thence to a wall.

Outside on frozen soil lie armies killed

Who seem familiar but they are cold.

Now the most solid wish he tries to keep

His hands show through; he never will look up,

Say “I am good”. On him misfortune falls

More than enough. Better where no one feels,

The out-of-sight, buried too deep for shafts.

[Enter father christmas. He speaks to the audience.]

father christmas: Ladies and Gentlemen: I should like to thank you all very much for coming here to-night. Now we have a little surprise for you. When you go home, I hope you will tell your friends to come and bring the kiddies, but you will remember to keep this a secret, won’t you? Thank you. Now I will not keep you waiting any longer.

[Lights. A trial. john nower as the accuser. The spy as accused. joan as his warder with a gigantic feeding bottle. father christmas as president, the rest as jury, wearing school caps.]

father christmas: Is there any more evidence?

john nower: Yes. I know we have and are making terrific sacrifices, but we cannot give in. We cannot betray the dead. As we pass their graves can we be deaf to the simple eloquence of their inscriptions, those who in the glory of their early manhood gave up their lives for us? No, we must fight to the finish.

father christmas: Very well. Call the witness.

[Enter bo.]

bo:

In these days during the migrations, days

Freshening with rain reported from the mountains,

By loss of memory we are reborn, --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Relié .

Présentation de l'éditeur

Between 1927 and his death in 1973, W. H. Auden endowed poetry in the English language with a new face.  Or rather, with several faces, since his work ranged from the political to the religious, from the urbane to the pastoral, from the mandarin to the invigoratingly plain-spoken.

This collection presents all the poems Auden wished to preserve, in the texts that received his final approval. It includes the full contents of his previous collected editions along with all the later volumes of his shorter poems. Together, these works display the astonishing range of Auden's voice and the breadth of his concerns, his deep knowledge of the traditions he inherited, and his ability to recast those traditions in modern times. --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Broché .



Détails sur le produit

  • Broché: 112 pages
  • Editeur : Faber & Faber Poetry (7 avril 2005)
  • Collection : Poet to Poet
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ISBN-10: 057122671X
  • ISBN-13: 978-0571226719
  • Dimensions du produit: 11,9 x 0,8 x 19,8 cm
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 5.0 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (1 commentaire client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: 51.118 en Livres anglais et étrangers (Voir les 100 premiers en Livres anglais et étrangers)
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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile  Par Akasha le 28 février 2013
Format: Broché Achat vérifié
I love WH Auden since many years and I enjoy that tiny book where you can find the most popular and beutifull poems of Auden.
It's one of my favorite pillow books.
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Désolé, nous n'avons pas réussi à enregistrer votre vote. Veuillez réessayer

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Amazon.com: 33 commentaires
267 internautes sur 285 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
A collected poems, NOT a complete poems 9 décembre 2001
Par N. Dorward - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Broché
There are two separate matters to consider here: the nature of this volume of Auden's collected poems, & the poetry itself. To tackle the first issue: this is not a _Complete_ but a _Collected Poems_, & this is a crucial difference. Auden was a perpetual reviser & assembled his canon with care. As with Robert Lowell his revisions are sometimes bewildering attempts to remake himself & his work in a very public manner. Auden grew to hate many of his best & most famous poems, notably "Sir, no man's enemy", "September 1, 1939" & "Spain 1937", & these are all excluded here, along with countless others. Late in his career Auden massively revised & pruned his canon, a project that was apparently prompted by his horror at the unprincipled use of his most famous line ("We must love one another or die") by Lyndon B Johnson in a notorious 1964 t.v. ad. (He was right to distrust that line's easy quotability: in the wake of Sep 11th the poem has enjoyed renewed popularity, which is pretty bizarre for a poem with lines like "Out of the mirror they stare, / Imperialism's face / And the international wrong.") Thus this volume presents a drastically lopsided view of Auden's work, & for this reason I cannot recommend it to anyone as an introduction to Auden's work. Nearly half of this book's 927 pages is taken up by work from the late 1940s up to Auden's death in 1973, & only the most ardent admirers of Auden will be able to find much of value in the final few hundred pages, facile, prolix & chatty verse which greatly disappointed Auden's contemporaries in his lifetime & which reads no better now. Anyone actually interested in the poetry that made Auden an important & influential poet should turn to the _Selected Poems_ & _The English Auden_. The former reprints the earliest printed texts of poems; the latter the texts as they stood when Auden left for the USA. This is an important distinction, especially for one of his most famous poems, "Spain". In the _Selected_ this appears in the 1937 version, which contains a stanza referring to the need to commit "the necessary murder". Orwell viciously attacked this line in a pair of essays, dishonestly distorting it into an apologia for Stalinist purges in "Inside the Whale". Auden, probably in response to the earlier of the two essays, altered the stanza in the 1940 version (entitled "Spain, 1937"), & eventually deleted the poem from his oeuvre. Auden nonetheless (rightly) defended the original version of the line, arguing that it was an honest attempt to speak of the possibility of a "just war", against the absolutist pacificist position that all wars are wrong, while nonetheless not downplaying the brutality of war.
About the poetry I can't say enough within the space of a brief review. Auden is probably the most influential English-language poet of the 20th century, & depending on your perspective must take much of the credit or blame for the midcentury retreat in the UK & US from the modernist & avantgarde styles of the early 20th century. (For good polemical histories of this shift, take a look at Jed Resula's _The American Poetry Wax Museum_ & Keith Tuma's _Fishing by Obstinate Isles_.) Auden was probably the most technically accomplished poet of the century, & yet this is not enough: by the end the verse fell into an obsessively genial & cozy facility carefully gutted of the urgency of his earlier work. His canon is still rather in need of a strongly revisionist survey: his most famous poems are sometimes justly so (the sublime "Lullaby", one of the century's great love poems) and sometimes in need of demotion ("Musee des Beaux Arts" for instance opens with one of the most fatuous lines in all of modern poetry: "About suffering they were never wrong, / The Old Masters."; & the elegy for Freud is like other of Auden's poems disfigured by nursery-talk & condescension). This volume makes me ultimately rather sad, that a poet with such enormous promise (the work he wrote in his early 20s is still utterly astonishing in its accomplishment & daring) never quite made good on it, & even came to hate much of his own best work. Turn to the _Selected Poems_ to get a better measure of what Auden was as a writer.
63 internautes sur 67 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
The best poet of the twentieth century, without question 13 juin 1998
Par Emily Weiland (emily@england.com) - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Broché
Auden is funny, sad, strange, wonderful. Here's a selection from of my favorites:
'When it comes,will it come without warning/ Just as I'm picking my nose?/ Will it knock on my door in the morning;/ Or tread in the bus on my toes?/ Will it come like a change in the weather?/ Will its greeting be courteous or rough?/ Will it alter my life altogether?/ O tell me the truth about love.'
Auden talks about not only love but also truth, justice, every part of the human experience. Here's a short part of "Musee des Beaux Arts":
'About suffering they were never wrong,/ The Old Masters: how well they understood/ Its human position; how it takes place/ While someone else is eating or opening a window or/ just walking dully along.'
I cannot find words strong enough to convey how powerful, and how human, this work is.
By the way, in his original 'selected works' Auden re-edited several of his most beloved works - many critics said for the worse. In this particular edition the editor included all of the poems that Auden selected as his best, but in their original forms.
23 internautes sur 23 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Excellent Work, with Some Minor Reservations 27 avril 2011
Par S. Schuler - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Broché
This is a volume for readers who already know that they enjoy Auden's poetry. The editor Edward Mendelson explains that, in calling the book the "Collected Poems," he means that the book includes all the poems Auden wanted to retain in his canon, in their final (sometimes revised) forms. As another reviewer (N. Dorward) warns, that means some popular poems have been left out. But I also think Dorward exaggerates. The number of poems Auden excised from his canon are not "countless," but perfectly countable. And the number of poems excised which readers actually care about is smaller still. In fact, there are really only three poems notably absent from the canon, which Dorward names: "Sir, no man's enemy," "Spain 1937," and "September 1, 1939." These poems are available in both _The English Auden_ and the _Selected Poems_, also edited by Mendelson.

The matter of revision is more serious, but what was a responsible editor to do? Mendelson might have printed both original and revised versions, but the volume is already over 900 pages, and most readers don't even notice the minor tinkering Auden sometimes did with wording. (We may notice that Auden deleted stanzas from "Summer Night" and "In Memory of W. B. Yeats," but how many Auden fans are aware that "Lullaby" was lightly revised? And who is to say that the revisions were always unwarranted?) Or, Mendelson might have added a "notes" section indicating where Auden made changes after initial publication. Or, he could have added the excised poems in an appendix. None of these solutions is really suitable given the aims of the volume. There had to be a volume that represented the author's final wishes about his works, and this is it. Don't we all wish we had such a volume from Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Wordsworth, however we might have disagreed with their judgment in any given case?

The volume does feature some minor annoyances. I can discern no rationale in the order in which the poems are printed. Why are they not printed either (a) in the order in which they were printed in Auden's books, or (b) chronologically by order of composition, or at least group them by year? I also must insist that the paperback binding is absolutely unsuitable. Because of the sheer number of pages, opening the volume without breaking the spine is impossible. The binding of my copy fell apart after a year of light use, and is now in several pieces which I refuse to discard because they contain all my notes. I would have been glad to spend an extra $5 or $10 for a hardback copy.

For those reviewers who frankly dislike Auden, I would like to attempt a few replies:
1. No poet is to everyone's taste, and it is perfectly legitimate to state, "if you prefer authors X and Y, then you are likely to hate Auden." But please state your expectations and presuppositions. It is no help to us if you merely say "I don't like Auden," unless we know what sorts of poetry you DO like. I would say that if you enjoy poets like Ben Jonson, Donne, Swift, Pope, and R. Browning, you will probably like Auden. But if you prefer poets like Shelley, Whitman, and Dylan Thomas, you are likely to be cool about Auden. Of course you may happen like any combination of poems or poets, but there are usually patterns in any given reader's literary tastes. I don't often find a reader who is equally enthusiastic about both Shelley and Auden.
2. If you want to discover a poet, a "Collected Poems" volume is not the place to start, unless the poet's total output is unusually small (as with Hopkins and T. S. Eliot). Better to provisionally trust an editor's judgment and pick up a Selected Poems volume instead. Auden wrote many unmemorable poems. While it is valuable to read any good author's collected works, I wouldn't recommend trying to read all the poems Auden ever wrote unless you already know that you like Auden.
3. I am at a loss to respond to those who find no depth in Auden. True, he does not often wear his politics or his religion on his sleeve. And he often speaks with his tongue in his cheek, so a reader with no ear for irony is bound to be frequently disappointed. He tends toward abstraction and is not a particularly "visual" poet. As a thinker, Auden tends to be more philosophical than spiritual, and he is almost never "devotional," though he was also capable of writing perfectly frivolous poems. I don't blame a reader who can't find depth in a poem like "Night Mail" or even "On This Island," but if you can't find depth in "Herman Melville," "In Praise of Limestone," or the "Horae Canonicae" sequence, may I gently suggest that you need to learn how to really read a poem ?
37 internautes sur 40 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Nary a disappointment 16 février 2003
Par Shaun - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Broché
Auden is at once one of the most interesting and heartfelt poets of the 20th Century, whilst being quite underrated as one of the world's best. This volume does an exceptional job in capturing Auden's works in the way that he himself wanted them to be seen. While there are a multitude of purists who cannot abide by any poet's natural tendency to revise his works as life experiences mold his perspective, that Mendelson made the relatively bold decision to publish the augmented Auden is quite refreshing, in my view. These are the works of a man who transgressed the need for set structures, and didn't sacrifice substance for the sake of style. In essence, his poetry was the truest expression of his ideals.
In regards to the book itself, it was tastefully put together, and is a definite asset to any poetry collection. The font and paper stock are smooth and refined, making the poetry easy to read in varying degrees of light. The poems are arranged in a roughly chronological order...once again, the way that Auden himself preferred.
Considering that I own a number of old volumes of Auden's poetry --including first editions-- I can assure any potential buyer that Mendelson took no liberties with this volume. I wish other collections could claim the same.
"Ah, to find a book of a certain Wystan Hugh,
Is to find a gem in a field of residue;
It has been a long time coming, but in my hands I hold
A paper book of Auden, worth its weight in gold"
29 internautes sur 34 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Auden is the best! 10 octobre 2001
Par K. French - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Broché Achat vérifié
Responding to Mr. Sympson's comment below, I have to say that, when I was a young man, I was dazzled by Eliot's language. Now approaching middle age, however, I find him a bit cold. Auden, on the other hand, grows in my estimation every time I read him. His grasp of human emotion is second to none among 20th century poets.
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