Interpretation

I promised to post my interpretation of "The Waste Land" by T.S. Eliot, and I'm sure that if anyone who has a clue about Eliot reads this, they will probably have a seizure. In the hopes of preventing major medical complications, please know that I do not pretend to be any sort of Eliot scholar.  Every one of the words typed below (that aren't in purple, cause those are Eliot's) comes, essentially, from my gut as opposed to some soaring poetic intellect, which is just as well as I haven't got any of the latter to work with and way too much of the former!  That said, read on if you dare.

Part I – The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruelest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept us warm, covering

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

A little life with dried tubers

--I think Eliot has been cruelly reminded of his past and the homosexual feelings he’s long suppressed have now come to the surface. 

--He sees his old lover, or believes he sees him -

         

There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying ‘Stetson!

You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
That corpse you planted last year in your garden,

Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?

Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?

Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men

Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!

You! hypocrite lecteur!--mon semblable,--mon frère!’

--Translation:  Hyprocrite reader! – my double,-- my brother!

--This may be a description of how he has buried his former self and that he fears those feelings coming to life again, but it also conveys the shame and anger Eliot feels about himself with the denial of his true self. 

Part II – A Game of Chess

                                                ‘Do

‘You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember

Nothing?’

    I remember

Those are pearls that were his eyes.

‘Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?

                                                But

O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag –

It’s so elegant

So intelligent

‘What shall I do now? What shall I do?’

‘I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street

With my hair down, so.  What shall we do to-morrow?

What shall we ever do?

                                                The hot water at ten.

And if it rains, a closed car at four.

And we shall play a game of chess,

Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

--A glimpse of Eliot’s life after the burial – a conversation between a man and a woman:   

She asks for reinforcement of his feelings for her, but all his feelings are for a dead lover or, possibly, his lost life.  So, she threatens to prostitute herself to receive the attention he fails to give her, but, in the end opts to remain with him and live a dull, repetitive life without passion.  The game of chess being the way men and women interact with each other, and the way we feel about ourselves as a result.  

Part III – The Fire Sermon

Or other testimony of summer nights.  The nymphs are departed.

And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;

Departed, have left no addresses.

By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept…

Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,

Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.

But at my back in a cold blast I hear

The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

--Now, that Eliot is getting older, he realizes that all he had is gone as if it never were, and it makes him profoundly sad.   

But at my back from time to time I hear

The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring

Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.

O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter

And on her daughter

They wash their feet in soda water

Et, O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

--Translation:  And, O those children’s voices singing in the dome!

--Eliot may be referring to his memories of during the war when his heterosexual alter-ego (Sweeney) visited prostitutes. 

Unreal City

Under the brown fog of a winter noon

Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant

Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants

C.i.f. London: documents at sight,

Asked me in demotic French

To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel

Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back

Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits

Like a taxi throbbing waiting,

I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,

Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see

At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives

Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,

--An admission that he has been approached by homosexual men (Mr. Eugenides) and that Eliot lives two lives – one as a heterosexual and one as a homosexual. Or, rather he once lived life one way and now exists as another.

         

‘My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart

Under my feet. After the event

He wept. He promised “a new start.”

I made no comment. What should I resent?’

‘On Margate Sands.

I can connect

 Nothing with nothing.

The broken fingernails of dirty hands.

My people humble people who expect

Nothing.’

            la la

To Carthage then I came

Burning burning burning burning

O Lord Thou pluckest me out

O Lord Thou pluckest

burning

--Further proof that Eliot may have taken up the invitations, but instead of feeling the freedom of his youthful excursions, instead he felt shame, guilt and unclean made forcefully by a reference to the Bible about the Lord plucking out what is unclean in his sight.  Yet, he still desires.

Part IV – Death by Water

--States the death again of his homosexual alter ego, and Eliot asks whomever “turn[s] the wheel” to steer him away from that state of being

Part V - What the Thunder Said

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces

After the frosty silence in the gardens

After the agony in stony places

The shouting and the crying

Prison and palace and reverberation

Of thunder of spring over distant mountains

He who was living is now dead

We who were living are now dying

With a little patience

--With that death, comes the death of his physical self. 

Who is the third who walks always beside you?

We who were living are now dying

With a little patience

Who is the third who walks always beside you?

When I count, there are only you and I together

But when I look ahead up the white road

There is always another one walking beside you

Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded

I do not know whether a man or a woman

--But who is that on the other side of you?

--His attempt at marriage - living as a heterosexual is a failure because, as his wife explains in the stanzas above, Eliot cannot fully engage with her because of his constant memories of his former homosexual life/self.  

--Eliot has tried everything to live the way society tells him he should live, but cannot.  The following is a kind of synopsis of an attempt to seek understanding of his situation:

Then spoke the thunder

DA

Datta: what have we given?

My friend, blood shaking my heart

The awful daring of a moment’s surrender

Which an age of prudence can never retract

By this, and this only, we have existed

Which is not to be found in our obituaries

Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider

Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor

In our empty rooms

DA

Dayadhvam:  I have heard the key

Turn in the door once and turn once only

We think of the key, each in his prison

Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison

Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours

Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus

DA

Damyata:  The boat responded

Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar

The sea was calm, your heart would have responded

Gaily, when invited, beating obedient

To controlling hands

--DA – is the thunder’s answer, but each interprets the answer differently as Datta (Give), Dayadhyam (Sympathize) and Damyata (Control), which reveals Eliot’s own confusion. 

                        I sat upon the shore

Fishing, with the arid plain behind me

Shall I at least set my lands in order?

London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down

Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina

Ouando fiam uti chelidon – O swallow swallow

Le Prince d’Aquitaine a la tour abolie

These fragments I have shored against my ruins

Why then Ile fit you.  Hieronymo’s mad againe.

Datta.  Dayadhvam. Damyata.

            Shantih  shantih shantih

--Translation of Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina:   

          ‘And so I pray you, by that virtue

            which guides you to the top of the stair,

            be reminded in time of my pain.’

            Then he hid himself in the fire that purifies them.

--Translation of Ouando fiam uti chelidon:                   When shall I become like the swallow?

--Translation of Le Prince d’Aquitaine a la tour abolie: The prince of Aquitainia in the abandoned tower

--Translation of Ile fit you:       I’ll oblige you

--Translation of Shantih    shantih   shantih:           The Peace which passeth understanding

--Eliot’s final thoughts on how to deal with his feelings is giving up, hiding away and asking for peace.  His life is actually a death, a wasteland…he awaits his imminent physical death that corresponds to his already dead spiritual, passionate self and the final peace he hopes/prays it will bring.

Different is Good!

If you’re like me, in high school you were forced to read books that you were told were “classics” like Billy Bud or Silas Marner.  And, you suffered through them, mostly hating them.  You may have been one of the lucky few who got to read something close to interesting, but for the most part you were completely turned off.  (I remember tucking my Stephen King paperback inside my English book during class reading time.)  Poe and Shakespeare were the only ones who caught my imagination.  If I am completely honest, the only reason Shakespeare got a second glance was because my 10^th grade English teacher told us to look for the bawdy jokes in “Romeo and Juliet.”  Brilliant man!  So, I tried really hard not to include all the “classics” that most kids read in high school (and hate) and stick to those that we read, or wish we read, in our childhood, adolescence and adulthood that make us think, wince, laugh out loud, reminisce, cry and generally enjoy. To that end, you’ll find my list pretty eclectic (and long!) but one that can be easily adaptable to any age group. 

Here it is already week three of 2012, and I’m finding the best way to end the day is to read to one or more of my kids, especially those books that I find so comforting and wonderful myself.  But, in keeping with the spirit of trying something new, I’ve tried hard to put in loads of children’s literature that I haven’t read myself (which is quite a lot, since I was obsessed with the occult, horror and sci-fi when I was a kid).  This week’s choices are a result of this conscious decision to go in a different direction.  Consider The Last of the Mohicans by James Fenimore Cooper, “The Waste Land” by T.S. Eliot and James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl. 

First off, you’re right! “The Waste Land” is not a book, but a poem.  It’s included on my list for several reasons, and the first of which is this: T.S. Eliot was a tortured soul and a literary genius, whose great works are often hidden behind his most famous work, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”  This is a shame, because Eliot is so much more, I’ve found.  Second, “The Waste Land” is often quoted in other works and I’ve always been curious about the poem, but not enough to actually read and dissect it.  Third, I’ve always stood in awe of those people who have had a classical education (learned in Latin and Greek among other cool and equally daunting subjects) and used that education throughout their art with such mastery that a horrible feeling of complete ignorance overcomes me whenever I encounter it, so I wanted to “crack the code” so to speak. Finally, this blog is supposed to stimulate people (namely myself) to more critical thought and nothing, I believe, takes more brain power than poetry!



How creepy is this cover?

Now, you may be remembering the long lectures and boring, drool-inducing explanations that I, too, was subjected to and unfortunately, ended up being mind-numbed to and turned off of classic fiction, poetry, plays and essays.  This was a big hurdle for me to overcome.  But, I found the most wonderful website to work through this poem, and if you decide to read “The Waste Land,” which I fervently hope you do, please go here http://world.std.com/~raparker/exploring/thewasteland/table/explore6.html to have it all become crystal clear in an easy to read, easy to understand format!  I found out so much that I didn’t know and, even though I didn’t subscribe to the couple of critically accepted theories behind the poem, I learned enough to come up with my own theory, which can I won’t elaborate on in this blog (I don’t want to influence any future reader with my opinions). I’ll say this, though:  what may look like a bunch of nonsense strewn together is actually an intensely personal revelation disguised by Eliot as something altogether different – something only an expert at concealment and undeniable genius intellect could pull off.  As you read, consider it was published in 1922, but the themes of disillusionment, religious conflict, and passion thwarted by societal norms, can still be applied today. I’d love to hear your interpretations!



The illustrations are PERFECT!



Brake…switch gears….and full steam ahead to: Roald Dahl – a staple among the children’s lit greats – Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Matilda, The Fantstic Mr. Fox,  and, of course, James and the Giant Peach.  I do love the way that Dahl writes and brings his characters to life, making you a believer amidst some pretty fantastical circumstances.  Poor James, a small boy whose parents are killed in a freak accident, goes to live with his evil aunties and after much suffering encounters a silly little man promising him an end to all his problems if James only follows his directions.  Of course, it all goes awry and James is caught up in a wonderful, glorious adventure that leads him and his new “friends” to new lives.  What a blast this was to read aloud and give voice to such funny and endearing characters! This short book moves at a fast pace designed to keep little ones interested and entertained, but with such a unique story that parents will be just as charmed as their children.  It was a great pleasure to read this to my daughter, who really liked it. (Little critic that she is though, declared emphatically that The Fantastic Mr. Fox was “better.”)

Sidenote:  It’s funny what kids take away from childhood books. In re-reading this with my daughter, I found I had completely forgotten about the fact the aunties perish when the peach rolls over them, but remembered with fondness the fact that Miss Spider spun all the peach’s inhabitants a hammock in which to sleep!  The same goes for all the PG movies I watched as a kid – so many happy memories, but when I watch them with my kids, I think, “Wow…did they just say the D-word 4 times in a row? I don’t remember that!”  But, my kids never bat an eye – doesn’t make the least impression on them.  Go figure.  On the flip side, I can trace my intense fear of sharks back to this book. (‘Course it didn’t hurt the same summer I read it, my older sister hummed the Jaws theme while I was swimming with her in the Atlantic Ocean!)   

Sadly, I haven’t finished The Last of the Mohicans and cannot, in all good conscience, report to you my review!  I’ll have to post twice this week, instead.  I’ll also put in this blog post my theory about “The Waste Land”. 

Keep Reading!!

Next Week:         Slaughterhouse-Five – Kurt Vonnegut

                                    20,000 Leagues Under the Sea – Jules Verne

                                    The Story of Ferdinand – Munro Leaf