T.S. Eliot, RIP

Death of a Poet

“Up and down,” said Mr. Eliot when I asked after his health; “or rather” (pause) “down and up.” His way with the cliché was characteristic; did an unexamined phrase ever pass those lips, unless to be made an example of on the spot? He was rather more up than down, though not so far up as one would have wished. He had arranged himself at his desk before his visitor was admitted, and in the course of half an hour barely moved except to crane forward, for emphasis, the magnificent head, at the back of which silver hair curled over his collar.

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Hugh Kenner

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Death of a Poet

“Up and down,” said Mr. Eliot when I asked after his health; “or rather” (pause) “down and up.” His way with the cliché was characteristic; did an unexamined phrase ever pass those lips, unless to be made an example of on the spot? He was rather more up than down, though not so far up as one would have wished. He had arranged himself at his desk before his visitor was admitted, and in the course of half an hour barely moved except to crane forward, for emphasis, the magnificent head, at the back of which silver hair curled over his collar.