It's the Feast of the Epiphany.
I used to love T. S. Eliot in a way that you can only love an artist when you yourself are young and guiltless. Once you know a little more about yourself, and him, it's never quite the same. I walked in flowery parks in England and recited the horrible, beautiful dark lines and I knew nothing about anything, et cetera, but gods, was it pleasurable.
When you are old, and a little horrible yourself, you understand the poet better, but your love is not free of regret. Anyway, what a fantastic voice he has.
