This selection contains a wealth of meaning. For one, Tiresias' fluidity of genders, catalyzed by his interactions with the serpents, connects directly to the notion of "two lives" - one being that of manhood, the other being of womanhood. Apart from this overt reference, the verb "throbbing" is employed in emphatic, intentional manner. As the Donne selection references, "to enter in these bonds is to be free," acknowledging that the immersion into one world of identity is a simultaneous liberation and an instance of bondage. When Tiresias strikes the serprent, he becomes "free" of one life, while also becoming immersed or imprisoned in the confines of a new life. "Throbbing" plays intimately into this relationship as it mentions the necessary pain and regret that comes with such a complete transition, the release of one life and the acceptance of another. The verb also contains an antithetically significant property in its sensuality: it can also refer to the simple pounding or pulsing of the body, thus establishing a connection to the intense synthesis and organic connection between living things. While forsaking one life is painful, it is deeply human and even deeply sensual. Finally, Gourmont makes significant reference to the necessary sacrifice involved in reaching amorous connection. The male spider is an example of this phenonmenon, devoured due to the predatory instincts of the female, never actually fulfilling the biological imperative. However, it is the next male, the next opportunity that is exploited in order to finally achieve fertility. Gourmont makes the argument that this sacrifice is a rite - a necessary component of procreation. Applying this logic to the selection at hand, throbbing can often be a painful sensation, indicative of damage, though in this case, it is the ubiquitous medium across which the two sexes converge. In the same manner as that of the spiders, one extreme, one entity, one gender, is subsumed by the other in the finding of harmony and a more perfect union.

Eliot's description offers a vivid contrast between the"river's tent," which is defective, and the leaves that sink into the bank of the river. Both images refer concretely to the naturalistic, both the river and the leaves are entities of organic origin. However, their functions are starkly different. The description of the river inverts nature's conceptual value as a haven, a shelter and place of birth for wild things, instead soiling its capacity as a refuge, or a "tent." In opposition, the leaves not only sink into the riverbed but "clutch" at it, adding a layer of sensuality to the description that evinces an intimacy the action - not only are the leaves permeating the surface, they are part of a gesture that will catalyze further fertility and growth. The duality of nature's desecration and simultaneous procreation is shown in Purcifal, where a "pure fool" is needed to resist the temptation of seductive women and retrieve a spear, thus restoring order, unity, nature, and fertility to the kingdom. Hence, antithetically, in order to fulfill the biological imperative and catalyze the initiation of cyclical proliferation, one must first evade temporary temptation to engage in personal intimacy. I find this overall source to carry a very similar notion to these two sentences.

The prospect of consecrating nature's plenty with the creation of offspring is central to this selection. Within Hamlet, Laertes acknowledges that "nature sends some precious instance of itself after the thing it loves." This statement is a direct reference to the expected fulfillment of the biological imperative - those that nature loves (those in love) are rewarded through the consecratory vessel of children. Essentially, children become a "precious instance" of nature that is bestowed upon people, an expected blessing that consummates an otherwise incomplete relationship between people. The fact that Laertes propagates this message is of interest as well. As the Homeric father of Odysseus, he has been blessed indeed with a famed, divinely gifted son, a gift from nature that he has done well to receive. A Game at Chess contributes similar notions to this interpretation. The Jesuit Black Bishop's Pawn states that "thy virginity is recompense too little for my love," adding that losing chastity is a singular, personal act. His boundless desire is indicative of that which he does not directly reference: the creation of children. They are what would rationally complete the mutuality of love, they are sufficient recompense, while mere action without consequence is not. Pound's piece refers to the "luminous green" of the rooks and the x's of the queens. While green is a clear reference to fertility and youth, the meaning of the x's is more ambiguous. To me, it seems a chromosomal reference - the epitome of femininity, as males don't have the required 2 x chromosomes to fit into this plural statement. Pound thus creates a spectrum that entails the two necessary components of love, fertility and femininity. Referring to the context of the cited material, it combines these varying exclamations. The prospect of children remains a central prerequisite to marriage and a proper relationship - the gift of nature is a necessary one that leads to cyclical propagation rather than infertile chastity. In even asking the question, the cycle itself is put into question.

In reference to what seems Cleopatra's throne, the inclusion of a marble surface bears a striking resemblance to the Antony and Cleopatra selection. Cleopatra states: "I have nothing/ Of woman in me: now from head to foot/ I am marble-constant; now the fleeting moon/ No planet is of mine." As a surface, marble connected deeply to the absence of femininity within the queen. Specifically, Cleopatra is subsumed by the material - she loses her organic properties and becomes diminished to the gleaming surface of her palace. Eliot evokes this very notion by indicating that the burnished throne "glowed" on the marble. While he could conceivably be referring to the sheer luster of the throne itself, it is more probable that the presence of a glow is due to the queen herself. Often praised for her beauty, it would make sense for Cleopatra's radiance to spread in the wide diffusion of light, casting a warmth on her surroundings in the form of a "glow." Thus, her emanating radiance (in combination with the play's connotation) can be taken to represent not just the effect of her presence on the marble, but also the transmission of her vivacity, her luster to the surface itself. She becomes the marble in a manner that eliminates her Earthly humanity, "no planet is of" hers, she is utterly alienated from her physical body. Essentially, the conversion of Cleopatra to marble is a denunciation of her living properties, rendering her inanimate, mirroring a most essential component in the poem's cyclical patterns of rebirth: the immobility of death.

The paradox reflected by this statement is connected intimately to a large amount of source material. The the human body is rendered as an amorphous shape, almost liquid, able to flow in the manner of water. Antithetically, the nature of the human river is directed against the compulsion of gravity, carrying upwards and cresting the hill rather than falling into compliance and rolling down its slope. In order to effectively attach to the slope, the human body would necessarily be able to establish some form of traction, of adherence that would anchor it and oppose gravitational motion. Bandelaine provides an explanation of this in the form of sap. The sap exists as a "flowing" lively entity that travels the veins of the human body, intermingled anatomically, a stark contrast to the dullness, the predictable patterns of an urban environment. Here, the same is true - the sap takes on a vivid life that resists the predictable motion of the slope, enabling the body to oppose constraints that challenge it. Additionally, Dante makes reference to the wicked souls that fling themselves from the shore, he compares them to autumn leaves falling away during seasonal transition. In this manner, the ejection of the damned into the belly of Hell contrasts vibrantly with common connotations of naturalistic deposition. Shedding of leaves demands lamentation, a mournful tone that encapsulates the loss of a thing that was living, was functional, was fertile. The passage of damned souls resides in opposition, evincing a position of security and justice - sinners are rightfully contained in Hell and represent a damaged vestige of humanity rather than a symbol of fertility. The sap's properties of viscosity and adherence harbor a similar notion. It is a remnant, a liquid that contains the lifeblood of nature, as is reflected by the leaves. However, it is employed in defiance of its customs - to aid the ascendance of humanity against nature's common laws.

The tarot cards, regarded with a high degree of antiquity by many scholars, reflect an unsure ancestral line. Whether or not they are direct predecessors to modern playing cards or of a distinct group remains unclear. However, what they do certainly contain is a connection to Le Morte D'Arture. The Cup, Lance, Sword, and Dish, corresponding images from the aforementioned story, converge to represent the four distinct suits of a tarot deck. Within Le Morte D'Arture, these images can be percieved as harbingers of fertility, of healing to an emaciated landscape left barren by the impotence and perpetual illness of the king. Once they are found, procreation and naturalistic recovery are able to commence once again, cyclically so, providing reprieve from a constant state of waste land. Within the context of tarot, these symbols take a central role in the cards' common divination purposes, one that is relevant to the healing of land. Transcending the commonality of mundane tarot use, these symbols would - within the concept of the Grail - be used to represent a different form of divination, one that foretells the recovery and restoration of the landscape. The symbols thus become not just thematically connected with an evanescent prospect of rebirth, but also with a rich history of fortune telling that reveals their status as prophetically tied to the return of fertility. Critically, this status extends to the cited text. The card, borne aloft on the back, is noted as blank, seemingly absent of either of the four suits - thus non-indicative of restoration. However, the following phrase, describing the forbidden nature of the card's hidden visage, challenges this notion. If the card is indeed blank, what prevents wandering eyes from glancing at its empty surface? Eliot seems to be tantalizing the audience, questioning the candor of his own work. In the balance hangs the prospect of the card's prophetic powers. Obviously, if it is blank, no catalytic change will occur, no prophecy will return fertility to the land. On the off-chance that it contains one of the four suits, restoration seems within reach. In many ways, this ambiguous structure mirrors the poem's internal struggle to reconcile damnation, ruin, and waste, with an indefatigable hope for better things to come. The card may indeed be blank, and indeed, the pursuit of its visage may be in vain. It is in this near futility that the future remains uncertain. The prospect of divination is clear, but the land, and the audience, cannot quite grasp the prophecy.

This phrase seems evocative of a particular line from Ezekiel: "the spirit entered into me when he spake unto me, and set me upon my feet, that I heard him that spake unto me." (S2). The intimacy established between the intervention of a voice and the physical proximity of that voice is striking. In order for a spirit to connect with the human conscious, it must also enter into the body. The function of the red rock seems similar. First, the shadow's presence is noted underneath it, though Eliot's inclusion of a parenthetical the following line implies that the enclosed meaning can also be derived from its predecessor. So, the acknowledgement of the rock is not simply a detail, but a communication, a voice that demands physical proximity in order to adequately impose itself. Ezekiel also seems to project a passivity onto the role of humanity during the reception of divine language. This is indicated by the following: "I will make thy tongue cleave to the roof of thy mouth, that thou shalt be dumb, and shalt not be to them a reprover: for they are a rebellious house." (S3). The tongue is essential to the process of human communication, though the word worthy of most attention is "cleave." A lingering ambiguity enshrouds it, as it could either be interpreted as evoking the tongue's adhesion to the mouth (signaling silence) or even perhaps as the tongue's cutting away, its freedom from captivity at the roof of the mouth. Hence, uncensored human voice could be a purveyor of diving wrath (bringing "rebellion") in addition to human silence. Between the two conditions remains the only ground known not to incite the anger of God: passivity and subservience. The role of humanity is not to talk or to be silent, but merely to listen, to absorb, to establish proximity with a voice that is not their own, not directly associated with their action. The red rock provides this.

The Sybil's words reflect a distinction that I think is present in both Heart of Darkness and Metamorphoses. As the prophetess aged and succumbed to frailty, her size became progressively more diminished, eventually enabling her imprisonment in a jar or a cage. Such an environment implicates constricting containment in a physical sense, though this rigidity is contradicted by the human voice. Due to the Sybil's relationship with Greek deities, her words were recognized and revered for their prophetic excellence and foresight. So, while the Sybil was physically imprisoned, her words contained a transcendental wisdom - arguably able to provide an escape from the stagnation and befuddlement of humanity's pursuits. A similar phenomenon occurs in Heart of Darkness, in that Kurtz's disseminated voice becomes an entity distinct from his body. Marlow references his voice as one of "purity," even acknowledging that his wonder for Kurtz relies not necessarily in the man but rather in the unique and wondrous properties of his voice. Indeed, when Kurtz dies, his voice does seem to carry a permanence that surpasses not just his infirm body, but also the corruption and horrors of human nature - represented by the colonizers and the tribes throughout the story. Lastly, in Metamorphoses, the priestess discusses how the fates will bequeath her a voice, even in transformation, even in nonexistence. Together, these three examples seem to evince a similar dichotomy: the physical (in this case the waste land) is subject to cyclical corrosion and decay, while the voice remains elevated on a plane that is semi-divine. It is perhaps this that the poem investigates very closely: language, in its purity, can provide a panacea, though its efforts may be insufficient to find salvation for the physical. The human voice is indefatigable - the human body and soul are not.

Titularly, Eliot seems to acknowledge a futility in the process of synthesis before the poem even begins. Despite the yearning for growth, revival, and virility that many ancient rituals acknowledged (including the vegetative rituals Eliot raises), the title carries a stark and singularly focused message - it centers around decay rather than fertility. The involvement of Le Morte D'Arthur reflects this notion as well. Beginning the causality that exists between the King's frailty and vitality and the health the land, the monarch's deficiency is meant to be addressed and reversed by the hero, a reversal that has not yet been indicated in the title. Beyond this central connection, Le Morte D'Arthur also employs the image of a "bed of tree," an image that is diametrically opposed to Eliot's title. As an inherently naturalistic image, a tree bed carries within it a promise of fertility and rebirth that is furthered by its association with subconscious sleep. The latter component serves as an additional marker of renewal, with the mind being invigorated and energized following relaxation. Crucially, this synthesis occurs in a self-catalytic fashion - the tree is a component of the corrupted, dying land that is capable of healing its woes. Contrastingly, "The Waste Land" includes no element of self-preservation or suggestion of renewal by nature. The land's condition and identity are absolute, a portrait of loss and disturbance that cannot be undone. It is almost as though the blood of the maimed king (anointed by Galahad) has been stripped of its recuperative properties. Dull, conventional, and macabre, the blood would in this case illustrate the King's weakness and imminent death rather than his rebirth. The title is openly declarative - a wound exists, one for which no current remedy has prevailed.