All shall be well and all the manner of things shall be well. My Paul Scofield reading the T.S.Eliot Little Giddiing  on CD in the 1990s or 2000s.

Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always--
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flames are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one (T.S.Eliot)

Some comments on Scofield - by actors:

 "Of the ten greatest moments in the theatre," said Richard Burton. "about the last half of the 20th century on the British stage, "eight are Scofield's."

(Richard Burton also writes in his published diaries that Joy Scofield told him that after some domestic disagreement, Paul sulked for a year. A whole year. Burton thinks this is unfathomable and not pleasant at all---),

Eileen Atkins and Felicity Kendall have spoken of his “spell” on other actors. Imogen Stubbs said that he was like a fireplace in whose warmth you wanted to stay for ever. Simon Callow speaks of his spell on audiences: they can’t get enough of him. Richard Eyre just simply calls it falling in love—theatrically.

Then there is this elegant story by Janet Suzman (who was the first Viola I ever saw, in Twelfth Night), a shortened excerpt:

Janet Suzman: how Paul Scofield's genius silenced a rehearsal studio

Frankly, I would have played a grain of sand just to be in the same room as Paul Scofield.

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Into this matutinal mess strode a figure through the far door, his corduroy jacket slung over his shoulder, his country brogues marking him out as a walker, his iron-grey hair gorgeously unkempt. He nodded to the director, busy talking to someone, then strode on to the mock stage, dropped his cord coat on the floor and started speaking: Timon's speech of endless invective outside the gates of Rome, after he has banished himself.

He did that speech five times in five completely different ways, his rich chocolate-truffle voice sinking and rising to different keys and rhythms, always tinged with his haunting minor-tones, like a soul in torment, his body dancing lightly like Muhammad Ali's. Or like a master gymnast swinging and looping away on the high rings, getting those emotional muscles to do his utmost bidding.

On the word "poison" he threw back his leonine head and gave the last syllable a sort of wolf-howl. I tell you, it caught a note and the scaffolding sang with it. Rattled and sang. Completely uncanny. He cocked his head, silently listening to the echoes. Then he went on, eager to persuade the nastiest bunch of gods lolling on Olympus to:

"… grant, as Timon grows, his hate may grow
To the whole race of mankind, high and low!
Amen."

That final "Amen" was rasped out in two separated syllables, the last way more vicious than the first.

Nobody moved a muscle. He picked up his dropped jacket, nodded to John, muttered "won't be a minute", like a schoolboy excusing himself, and strode off to the green room, I assume to get his own coffee.

As the door shut behind him, John Schlesinger, echoing the thoughts of all of us there that unforgettable morning, just whispered, "Fucking hell". There was nothing more to add.

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