“The conscience of a blackened street / Impatient to assume the world.”

I’ve been thinking about these lines from T. S. Eliot’s “Preludes” over the past couple of days. The street is silent and empty at night, but we are invited to imagine it impatient for the morning’s traffic. What is still and silent might nonetheless be full of passion and energy.

Eliot often found it difficult to write; long periods of silence when he couldn’t produce anything. Looking back over a life, those silent stretches can be made to look like part of the plan, or part of the process at least. But in the moment the silent writer is churning with desperation.

I think it tells a lot that a writer can look at a silent, empty street and imagine it full of inner turmoil. It feels like a confession: I may seem calm on the outside, but…

This blog has been silent for a while but my conscience is tickling me and I hope to start posting more frequently from now on.