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Picture of T. S. Eliot, author of 'The Waste Land' (also T.S. Eliot, TS Eliot); twentieth century American Literature


 
June 3, 1964
T. S. Eliot   (1888 - 1965)
 
Eliot, Groucho, Duck Soup
 
by Steve King

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On this day in 1964, T. S. Eliot wrote to Groucho Marx to confirm that a car would be at waiting at the Savoy to pick "you and Mrs. Groucho" up for dinner. Eliot also noted that Groucho's announcement of having "come to London to see me has greatly enhanced my credit in the neighbourhood, and particularly with the green grocer across the street." Eliot began corresponding with Marx several years earlier, having first sent a fan letter saying how much he enjoyed his movies. They exchanged photographs -- Eliot had to ask for a second of Groucho as his first one had no cigar -- and over several years tried to arrange an occasion for dinner or, as envisioned by Groucho, an evening wherein "you and I will get drunk together." Their letters show an increasing familiarity, though perhaps more on Groucho's part: Eliot's salutations evolve from "Dear Groucho Marx" to "Dear Groucho," while Groucho, having been encouraged to use "Dear T. S. E." goes one better to "Dear T. S.," or "Dear Tom" to start, and "My best to you and Mrs. Tom" or "My best to you and your lovely wife, whoever she may be" at the close. In one letter Groucho says that he has just finished his latest opus, "Memoirs of a Mangy Lover": "... I doubt whether it will live through the ages, but if you are in a sexy mood the night you read it, it may stimulate you beyond recognition. . . . I would be interested in reading your views on sex, so don't hesitate. Confide in me."

Their much-postponed dinner took place just seven months before Eliot's death at the age of seventy-six. In a letter to Gummo, Groucho describes finding his "celebrated pen pal" to be "tall, lean and rather stooped over. . . from age, illness, or both," but "a dear man and a charming host." Though "a memorable evening," all did not go as expected:
    ... At any rate, your correspondent arrived at the Eliots' fully prepared for a literary evening. During the week I had read "Murder in the Cathedral" twice, "The Waste Land" three times, and just in case of a conversational bottleneck, I brushed up on "King Lear."
    Well, sir, as the cocktails were served, there was a momentary lull - the kind that is more or less inevitable when strangers meet for the first time. So, apropos of practically nothing (and not with a bang but a whimper) I tossed in a quotation from "The Waste Land." That, I thought, will show him I've read a thing or two besides my press notices from Vaudeville.
    Eliot smiled faintly -- as though to say he was thoroughly familiar with his poems and didn't need me to recite them. So I took a whack at "King Lear". . . .
    That too failed to bowl over the poet. He seemed more interested in discussing "Animal Crackers" and "A Night at the Opera." He quoted a joke -- one of mine -- that I had long since forgotten. Now it was my turn to smile faintly. . . .
    We didn't stay late, for we both felt that he wasn't up to a long evening of conversation -- especially mine.
    Did I tell you we called him Tom? -- possibly because that's his name. I, of course, asked him to call me Tom too, but only because I loathe the name Julius.

    Yours,
    Tom Marx

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Related authors:  Bertrand Russell, Ezra Pound, Hart Crane, James Joyce, Katherine Mansfield, Robert Frost, T. S. Eliot, Virginia Woolf, Wallace Stevens, Wyndham Lewis
 
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