In the poet's shoes - 2 - Eliot

There are Greek names – hermetic, austere, looking down on you from the complex layers of their statuesque psyche (though you know Greek statues used to be painted in bright colours, so that doesn't impress you) – uttered between sweaty thighs. The air is thick and the room poorly lit. It smells of manhood, of vexed sex, of uncomfortable women. Someone in another room is reading tragedies out loud. You can't quite make out the stories but the confusion, seriousness and density of the words are enough to know this is not going to end well. Enough to know also that, though it concerns mankind and addresses the civilized nature of men, it is not for everyone. Just like the glass of hard alcohol reaches the poet's lips, and the woman remains silent.