a crumb of literary comfort

On a lunchtime wander this week, I came across this plaque:

T.S. Eliot lived here

There I was, dragging about in a fog of head-cold and office blues, and suddenly I’m connected to Eliot – his ‘lonely cab-horse steams and stamps’ only a few streets away from where I earn the crust that keeps the wolf from the door. How absurdly, immeasurably my spirits were lifted by this tenuous connection. And what a comfort to be able to summon lines and phrases from his poems, to remind myself why I still want to live in London, and how writing is still at my core, a faint but still discernible pulse.

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