One of the great poems of the twentieth century, and one which we might call a kind of Anglo-American epic. Starting with Burnt Norton here, from the copy given to me by my great old friend Elisabeth, bought in 1941, and with her til her death in 2008. The great novelist John Fowles offers a nice way into this poem: 'The word is the most imprecise of signs. Only a science-obsessed age could fail to comprehend that this is its great virtue, not its defect.'