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I am going to have to put aside my book writing for 10 minutes to read the statement released today by TS Eliot.

Oh god. This is a lot. Poor Viv. Poor poor Viv.
To be spit upon while also being credit for making the poet is something.
Boy did Eliot make a big mistake waiting 50 years and not 45 because we women of today are going to eat this letter like air.
What a dick. Dick. Dick. Dick. This is my professional master's-degree-in-writing holding opinion.
Ok. It's going to be at least 20 minutes.
T S Eliot on Emily Hale: I might mention at this point that I never at any time had any sexual relations with Emily Hale.
You will note that whether or not Eliot is in love with Emily Hale only depends on whether or not she understands him. It has nothing to do with anything he might like or love about her or who she is.

This is an amazing thing to read this way. Men, y'all something else.
That he would think of this as a defense. Even 10 years ago if it had been published it would have arrived differently. Way to set fire to it all, Eliot. Good work.
I mean, congrats to for Valerie for winning the perfect wife award, I guess? But let it be known that he institutionalized Vivienne in order to be free from having to divorce her.
And also who was a crucial editor of The Wasteland, which you can see in this facsimile despite her name being left off the title by Valerie Eliot. books.google.com/books/about/Th…
Viv Haigh-Wood likely suffered from endometriosis and/or adenomyosis and Eliot found her irregular & heavy bleeding greatly embarrassing and disgusting and she, having little medical support developed very understandable mental health issues, and he had her found insane for all.
He was a monster! Ok, thanks.
Yes, I like The Wasteland if you are interested and he is a monster. See! It's not hard.
The handwringing that went into this to make us understand. Oh, yes. we understand entirely, Eliot. Only you weren't smart enough to predict that time and societal norms for women improved, because you don't treat women as human beings, and it was beyond your imagining.
Oh dear, I am now in full convo with a dead white poet. I have a book to write. I'm going to put on Freedom now.
Sorry, it's just. Sorry. It's too much.

I probably have a long essay about this. But not today.
Damn timing.
Last thing, uh, TS Eliot, it is you who are responsible for your own damn letters. Not your wives, the one you hated, or the one you loved. Not your "I didn't have sex with her" lover. Your own damn self. You wrote them, Mr. Eliot. Ghost or not.
Now I am imagining the librarians and archivists who were tasked with publishing this today.
Must compose myself. #amwriting
Apologies for all the typos. This was a live-tweeted hot potato of a letter. A widening-gyre-center-not-holding of a letter. Maybe men can start fixing themselves now. The everyman Eliot defined is not who you want to still be.
Here is the letter as Eliot wrote it with helpful context and background from its curator at the Houghton. blogs.harvard.edu/houghton/the-l…
Also, let it not go unacknowledged that Eliot threw considerable shade for no good reason at The Houghton Library and its professional ability to keep secrets and boy have they ever showed him what professionals they are.
Also, I don't even know what his letters to her say yet, but I believe Emily Hale.
Oh, and FFS I know it's The Waste Land not The Wasteland. I was typing fast and thinking faster about snobs like yourself. Yes you.
I wish Sontag were here.
I guess this has me wondering if straight men have to be monsters and erase women and conscript their partners in order to write "great work" because it is so many. today I am feeling bad for literary wives.
and also, who would want to write if they had to reduce their partner to nothing to do it? and how do they not see it?
And it is a good time to recommend Kate Zambreno's important Heroines, thanks to @heatherfro for reminding me it is exactly about this.
I think maybe that TS Eliot was very much in love with Emily Hale is what I think. And the whole letter is a big big refusal to own that he regretted being a poet. Maybe.
That was a long 10 minutes.
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