Bradley states that it is likely that we “share our general morality with a common man.” Eliot, however, suggests that it is not simply these values that we share, but rather a confinement within them.

This notion is reflected in the title: “What the thunder said” becomes ironic. We don’t care what the thunder had to say; instead, we interpret it according to our own perspectives. The presumable thunder echoes its teaching—“da”— to gods, humans, and demons, each of whom constrains it to their singular interpretation: to give (“datta”), to control oneself (“dayahadvam”), and to sympathize (damyata). Thus, it appears that the teaching itself is less significant than its interpretation. What if “da” were intended to encompass all three meanings? Yet, different creatures choose to confine it within just one.

Eliot goes further than that and crafts a world in which “da” means none of these interpretations. The first pronoun following each of the “da” gives insight into this irony of the values we established. The first “datta” – to give – is dominated by the pronoun “we.” By definition, “give” is “to freely transfer the possession to.” The collective pronoun “we” evokes a sense of shared responsibility, suggesting that giving is a communal activity rather than a purely selfless act. With a simple use of “we” Eliot hints at how noble intentions – this “freely” – turn into transactional relationships and the concept of giving becomes confined within the bounds of reciprocity.

As we switch to “dayahadvam,” however, Eliot introduces a pronoun “I.” I represents a personal agency, where individual confinement leaves no room for compassion to others. Eliot reinforces this idea with a double repetition of “each.” Without compassion and connection with others we are isolated – “each” in their own prison, where thinking of escape we further confine us within this trap. The use of “I” reveals the limitations of self-centered thinking, suggesting that without genuine connection and compassion, we are ultimately confined, entrapped, and isolated from one another.

Finally, as we transition to “damyata,” the pronoun shifts again, this time to the third-person “the boat.” This transition signifies a move from internal self-control, which damyata is supposed to signify, to a search for external control. The boat, an object, thus, becomes a metaphor for the external forces we seek to exert control over our lives. In this way, the use of the third person reflects a desire to externalize control rather than cultivating it from within. This search, however, never culminates with a discovery; instead, Eliot uses a hypothetical tense, where “the heart would have responded gaily” if it was “invited” into these “controlling hands.” The hypothetical tense suggests an absence of such an external force that could have provided stability from the outside.

Through these pronouns, thus, it appears that Eliot suggests that it is not the values that connect us; instead it is the entrapment within the interpretations of these values, obscuring their true significance, that we share. The act of giving becomes transactional, compassion is separated by barriers of isolation, and self-control turns into an unfulfilled quest for external authority. Consequently, the teachings of connection only serve to highlight the constraints we ourselves have imposed, trapping us in this prison of distorted interpretations.

The significance of “why then I’ll fit you” in reference to the Spanish Tragedy becomes quite obvious, though ambiguous: on one hand it is us, the readers, that Eliot fits within the story. We embody the blind Tiresias, the voiceless Philomela, desperate female characters, the life of abundance, and, ultimately, the waste land itself. On the other hand, we might take on an interpretation of “I’ll fit you” signifying “you’ll get what you deserve.” This interpretation suggests that the poem becomes a revenge tragedy in itself, a disillusioning experience where readers are driven mad, much like Hieronymo, as we face the bleak, fragmented world Eliot presents. This interpretation turns the poem into more than a work of disillusionment—it becomes an active, disillusioning experience in which we are drawn into the madness of the modern world, a madness that ultimately mirrors Hieronymo’s journey in The Spanish Tragedy.

The use of “againe” here becomes particularly intriguing. Hieronymo’s story doesn’t appear to follow a cyclical pattern of madness (which “againe” would seem to imply); instead, Hieronymo’s madness seems to be progressive—each tragic event adds another layer to his deterioration, building toward his presumable insanity. This progressive madness reflects the poem’s structure, where each section delves deeper into the decay of both individual characters and the broader modern world. In this sense, the madness in The Waste Land can be understood as a different sort of progression – one between two definitions of madness: anger and insanity.

Interestingly, the last line “shantih shantih shantih” has no period. Importantly, the fact that these lines signify peace does not refute our prior analysis of progressive madness. The repetition three times is the conclusion of a prayer for peace – it is not achieved; instead, it is simply prayed for. The absence of a period in itself suggest an unfulfillment of this peace – it becomes a prayer that has not been answered. It is also not a conclusion as signified once again by the absence of a period; instead these lines appear to return us to the very first stanza. “April is the cruellest month” then gains a new interpretation with the poem’s cyclical nature. This madness, anger, induces a rush of adrenaline that needs to be expressed or suppressed. In this sense, shantih shantih shantih could signify this repression of a natural emotion. As we cycle back to the beginning (which the absence of a period seems to encourage us to) we see the effects of this suppression: the burial of the dead. The emotions that have been buried—the anger, the disillusionment—are not allowed to surface or to be expressed (the winter “kept us warm” for a period of time and “cover[ed]” Earth “in a forgetful snow”). These emotions – the anger, the disillusionment – are repressed, only to build up and sprout in April, “the cruellest month,” into the madness and violence of the world Eliot describes. The cruelty of April, then, is the reawakening of repressed anger, grief, and disillusionment, which leads to the eventual madness.

By the end, the anger does not simply drive insanity; it turns into it. Hieronymo, thus, becomes mad “againe,” but now it takes on a different connotation. As emotions are repressed, they are buried beneath the surface, leading to the spiritual and emotional death of the individuals and the civilization they represent. This “againe” then, paradoxically, signifies the final descent into madness: it is not cyclical, but rather progressive. It is the result of long-term suppression. The repressed anger, the buried grief, and the disillusionment that have been accumulating throughout the poem finally explode falling into madness (which now adopts a new meaning of insanity) and taking the readers with them.

The Waste Land, thus, becomes a prophecy warning about how the long-term suppression of human emotions—anger, grief, and despair—will inevitably lead to madness, spiritual death, and cruelty. And in this way, the poem becomes not just a depiction of chaos, but an act of revenge—a revenge not simply on the world but rather on the readers, who are implicated in the same cycle of repression and destruction.

The modern world that Eliot describes seems to be defined by extremes. In this passage, however, the readers get a sense that it is an ambiguous, uncertain state in between that poses the greatest danger.

We are first introduced to a dystopian vision of a chapel, conventionally a symbol of spirituality. In Eliot’s version, however, this chapel becomes a representation of destructive ambiguity. It has “no windows” and its door “is swinging.” The absence of windows invokes a feeling of isolation from an external world. What should serve as a connection to a higher power, thus, does not simply become a barren space that obstructs any chance of spiritual communion but also inhibits our connection to the terrestrial realm. The “swinging” door further amplifies this uncertainty: is it an exit to the chaotic world outside or an entrance to a questionable hope within the chapel? In both cases, this “swinging” further exemplifies this ambiguity: neither open nor closed, this door can slam shut at any moment, trapping us in a cycle of isolation and ambiguity.

Eliot continues this notion with “only a cock” standing on a rooftree and crying “co co rico co co rico.” Cocks traditionally exclaim in the morning with a sunrise, representing a new day: a new beginning. Interestingly, the word “cock” also represents a firing lever in a gun, which, when raised, makes the gun ready for firing an attack. The cock is physically elevated, standing on a “rooftree” and following its cry another sound emerges – lightning, analogous to the sound of a bullet fired. With the cock raised and the shot fired, the new beginning transforms into a signal of an impending end. The ambiguous nature of this new beginning hints at a cycle of violence and chaos beneath these new beginnings, emphasizing the danger of embracing transitional moments.

The use of “co co rico co co rico,” which is in most Eastern European countries is a sound that a cock makes, opposed to a conventionally english version “cock-a-doodle-doo” invokes a reference to Hesse’s analysis of a Russian man within The Karamazov Brothers, which Eliot noted in his notes for the Wasteland. Hesse describes precisely the danger of this ambiguity, stating the men are “halfway between good and evil.” Men are positioned in the middle between the animals and a higher consciousness: neither one or the other, forcing us to attempt to repress one and let the other dominate. This animal consciousness, however, can never become fully suppressed. Instead, “everyone of these [dangerous] instincts must come sooner or later to the surface. Each instinct goes on living, not one is killed…” It is the in-between state, the coexistence of both natures and the resulting suppressing of one that leads to human violence guided by the previously suppressed instincts.

Thus, within Eliot’s portrayal of the empty chapel and the ambiguous imagery of a cock, the in-between state is not merely a transitional phase; instead, it becomes a breeding ground for despair and chaos.

The water that has only recently brought about death to an unfortunate sailor and has seemingly threatened “Gentile[s]” and “Jew[s]” and even us, the readers, now becomes the force an absence of which leads to death. What if the “death by water” that Madame Sosotris warned about was not the drowning but the death brought by its lack? This absence—spiritual and physical—defines the drought that pervades society.

In essence, that warning has already become true. In the search of meaning, the earthly desires have drowned humanity. What comes after it is stillness: a period of profound spiritual drought. This lack of spiritually induces apocalypse: a cycle of life seemingly becomes broken. The silence in the mountains does not give way to voice, and stillness, described in The Death of Water, that follows the storm does not imply recovery; instead, it leads to further destruction. There is no resurgence after the storm, only desolation.

This desolation is no less overwhelming than the indulgence that preceded it. The absence of water—a metaphor for spiritual sustenance—is inescapable. The mountains, once symbols of “solitude,” “silence” and reflection are now dry and barren. The use of “even” in these lines underscores the notion of the totality of this spiritual drought. There is no refuge, no shelter, not “even” in the mountains.

Eliot further juxtaposes biblical light, associated with Christ as “the sun shineth in his strength,” as described in Revelations, with thunder, transforming it into a symbol of apocalypse – the thunder itself represents a loud rumbling or crashing noise after a lightning flash. This choice of title and imagery seems to suggest that divine intervention may have already occurred—unrecognized and unheeded, leaving only a loud noice as its product. What if Jesus is already here “walking beside” us? Left unrecognized, however, he does not intervene. This notion is underscored by the repetition of the question regarding the personality of this third creature: “Who is the third who walks always beside you?” In the second reiteration of the question, however, “beside” changes to “on the other side.” This divine creature, most likely Christ, is present, yet now isolated, by the walls of mountains we ourselves have built.

The tragedy of this drought, thus, seems to lie not in the absence of divine intervention, but in humanity’s inability to recognize it. In this contemporary world, it is not the storm that destroys; it is the stillness after, where the absence of recognition leads to a deeper decay. The apocalypse has already begun (or potentially has almost reached its culmination), not in fire or flood, but in silence and spiritual blindness.

The belief that humans are meant for greater pursuits intertwines with the inevitability of death. Despite Eliot’s lack of appreciation for Tennyson’s narrative, this idea seems to have been inspired by Tennyson’s poem. The final line of “Ulysses” becomes the most striking and seemingly summarizes its entire purpose as Ulysses states “to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.” For Ulysses, life’s meaning lies in this quest for knowledge and purpose, despite the certainty of death.

Dante’s description offers a deeper insight into this theme. When Ulysses describes his story he explains how he encouraged his comrades to embark on a journey, declaring “you were not made to live like brutes or beasts, but to pursue virtue and knowledge.” The comparison to inhumane and violent creatures further signifies a human aspiration to seek meaning beyond mere survival. This pursuit, however, is deemed ineffective: as Ulysses describes, “the whirlwind" stroke the boat “the sea closed over” them, describing how human ambition becomes futile in the face of inescapable fate.

Eliot reiterates the same theme for Phlebas, who is merely a product of Eliot’s imagination. The readers have no idea of the life of the character and it never becomes important: this meaningless life of a made-up character, however, leads to the same outcome, which Eliot underscores by invoking a similar image of a whirlpool. Furthermore, Eliot’s choice to introduce a character without a rich backstory underscores this notion: all lives, regardless of their perceived significance, converge on the same fate, where death, as an unyielding current, eventually claims every life. A change from whirlwind, which is caused by instability of wind can happen anywhere, to whirlpool, which are results of an intersection of two opposing currents, becomes particularly interesting. Instead of focusing on unpredictability, Eliot uses this image to highlight the result of opposing a sort of “life’s current.”

The title of this section, a reiteration of Madame Sosostris’s prophecy to “fear death by water,” adds a layer of irony to this opposition: what is the point of fearing this death if Eliot had already predetermined it, had already written both the readers’ and the characters’ fates within the poem? This pathology serves as a direct analogy to reality, where no matter the fear or attempts to battle the circumstances, the outcome remains unchanged.

In a sense, it appears that Eliot encourages readers to resign to circumstances, as he contrasts the previous Fire Sermon with this Death by Water. The struggles, dissociations, and pleas of the Fire Sermon are juxtaposed with the calm detached description of the Death by Water.

In contrasting these two sections, Eliot presents two different responses to existential challenges. Whether with Philomela, who attempts to voice her pain as a nightingale with “tereu,” however, as a female nightingale is unable to produce sound, the unnamed female who desperately asks her partner “Why do you never speak to me,” or the five burnings that might relate to disconnection from the five senses in response to the character’s final plea: “O lorg thou pluckst me out”, the characters in "The Fire Sermon" grapple with external circumstances. Whether relationships, disconnection, or the chaos of modern life, their attempts to fight against these forces prove ineffective. Instead, their search for meanings only reveals the futility of their resistance.

In contrast, "Death by Water" offers a sense of acceptance of mortality. Phlebas has been dead for two weeks – a “fortnight,” when there is nothing to be done anymore. Instead, external circumstances, like “a current under the sea,” carry his body. Eliot reiterates its overarching nature, drawing a comparison between Phlebas, “Gentile or Jew” and the readers.

The effectiveness of this acceptance is further reflected through form: Death by Water becomes straightforward and concise, while the Fire Sermon constantly grapples with dissonance, contrasting voices, and changes in form.

Whether in life or in death, external circumstances, like a “current under the sea” seem to carry us to the final destination that remains unchanged despite the life pursuits. Death by Water, thus, invokes a question: maybe it is in the acceptance of the certainty of death and refusal to fight these external circumstances that lies a potential for peace amid this chaos of life?

The external forces that Eliot alludes to throughout the Fire Sermon take on a vivid image as he references Elizabeth l and Leicester and describes them “beating the oars.” This phrase appears to be an unconventional way of describing an act of rowing. On the surface, the use of “beating” emphasizes the exertion and physical degradation as a result of an intense physical activity and further hints at the external forces that shape and, thus, can be blamed for degrading individual relationships. At the end of this section, however, Eliot appears to adopt a different central notion, where external factors are not the ones to blame for the degrading relationships in a modern society; instead it is the internal lack of commitment that breaks them down from within.

Interestingly, a related phrase, “to put an oar in someone else’s boat,” emerged during the Tudor period (of which Elizabeth was the last monarch), meaning “to involve yourself in a situation when other people do not want you to” (Cambridge Dictionary). This phrase once again seemingly points to external interference in personal matters and further reinforces the idea that external forces play a role in guiding individuals’ lives. This phrase, however, is a descendant of an innuendo related to Henry Vll, which references his wife’s affair. In this case, directly the affair itslef and a lack of emotional commitment becomes this unwelcome cause that interferes within their relationship. With this context, the affair itself—and the lack of emotional commitment within the relationship—becomes the unwelcome force that disrupts and degrades the relationship from within, rather than being an external force imposed upon it.

Elizabeth and Leicester “beating the oars” seems to be a play on this phrase. Eliot’s invocation of a relationship between Elizabeth and Leicester, who were never married but maintained an intimate connection, and a reference to a Tudor idiom deepen his critique of modern relationships. The act of “beating the oars” implies a sense of physical and emotional exertion, leaving the individuals involved devastated and symbolizing how uncommitted intimate relationships often lead to emotional depletion rather than fulfillment.

Eliot exemplified similar notions in the previous accounts of intimate relationships marked by neglect and abuse. The line we previously discussed “Why do you never speak? Speak to me” describes the emotional disconnect that accompanies relationships devoid of commitment. This discontent parallels the passive endurance of sexual advances described in the previous scene, signifying that relationships centered solely on physical intimacy fail to provide any true connection. In such relationships, even physical connection becomes a degrading and, in a sense, disconnecting experience.

This degradation is further exemplified through the notion of rowing. The “southwest” wind, which blows into a northern direction, and their travel “down [the] stream” directly signify a cold and deteriorating nature of these purely physical relationships.

The Fire Sermon itself suggests an idea where human internal passions burn them from within. Unlike Buddha’s teachings, however, which propose the possibility of liberation from these primitive desires, Eliot once again presents a more pessimistic view. Humanity, in his portrayal, is incapable of freeing itself from these desires. Each repetition of “burning, burning, burning, burning” could potentially symbolize the loss of one of the senses—sight, smell, sound, and taste. This loss reflects humanity’s growing disconnection from the world, as people focus increasingly on physical touch as their only means of connection. The plea “Oh Lord thou pluckest me out” signifies the desire for liberation. This unsuccessful plea, however, shortens to “Oh Lord thou pluckest,” interrupted by the final “burning,” which represents the ultimate degradation: the loss of the fifth sense, touch - the last, even though hollow, chance of connection.

In these references, Eliot abandons the notion of external forces controlling individual relationships and proposes that it is an internal emptiness and a lack of genuine connection, suppressed by hollow physical intimacy, that degrades them from within.

Tiresias, who is supposed to transcend genders and signify absolute wisdom, still falls victim to a patriarchal order. In both The Metamorphoses of Ovid and Lempriere’s description, while Tiresias is both male and female, the readers get a sense that female is only his secondary sex. Despite his continuous switching between the two genders, the pronoun used for Tiresias never changes – it remains a “he.” In The Metamorphose of Ovid, even after Tiresias becomes a woman, the author states that “he” comes “upon the serpents.” Similarly, Lempriere describes Tiresias’s transformation as “he himself suddenly changed into a girl.” The use of both “he” and “himself” creates particular emphasis on his masculinity as his primary identity. It is further described as an “original sex,” suggesting an inherently secondary role of a female identity. Societal expectations force him into a binary framework and prioritize masculinity, reducing femininity to a secondary status.

Eliot picks up on this binary notion and further builds off of it. He describes Tiresias as an “old man with wrinkled female breasts.” Tiresias’s male identity is absolute – he is a “man,” while his femininity becomes reduced to his “wrinkled female breasts” – a mere physical attribute. The use of “wrinkled” invokes a sense of a decay of and disdain for Tiresias’s femininity. While it does directly relate to aging and a sense of decay, wrinkles often appear by attempting to shrink or contract a substance. A symbol of Tiresias’s female identity, thus, becomes shrunken and diminished. Additionally, since wrinkles is a product of an external perception, the readers gain a sense that it is the patriarchal narrative that insists on prioritizing his masculine side. This description suggests that feminine identity is viewed as less valuable, condensed or even grotesque within the patriarchal lens.

Furthermore, the shift from the more neutral term "breasts" to the more vulgar "dugs" in Eliot’s portrayal implies a degradation of femininity. According to Collins Dictionary, "dug" can be “used, vulgarly or contemptuously, of a woman's breast,” which reinforces the idea that Tiresias's feminine side is not only secondary but also viewed with disdain. Does Teresias feel a sense of contempt for his feminine side? Or, more likely, is it the external perception that belittles and disregards this femininity? In any case, Eliot uses this transition in terminology to underscore the tension between Tiresias’s dual identities.

Eliot describes the existence of female identity within a patriarchal framework more directly when he describes a sexual assault of a female character, who, following the intercourse, thinks, “Well now that’s done and I am glad it’s over.” She resigns to these circumstances and the external influence makes her disregard her own agency. Just as Tiresias’s female identity becomes secondary and almost grotesque, the female character becomes a mere vessel of satisfaction for her partner. As a result of her submissiveness, her thoughts become detached. She is “hardly aware” of her lover’s departure, her thoughts are “half-formed” and her hand is “automatic.” These descriptions invoke an image of a dehumanized individual: she is stripped from the full consciousness and self-awareness of a human; instead, her movements and thoughts remind that of a lifeless robot. Within this binary system, both the feminine aspect of Tiresias and the female character's humanity are diminished under the weight of patriarchal dominance. Femininity and female identity become dismissed, dehumanized, and reduced to a mere tool for male satisfaction.

Animal allegories seem to be a common theme in the sources Eliot continuously references. The inconsistency of the conventional symbolism of these creatures and their actions within these sources appear to demonstrate the superficiality of societal hierarchies, where status rarely reflects true contribution. While in classical symbolism, swans embody grace and self-restraint, Spencer in Prothalamion, relates the swan symbolism to a myth of Jove, where he, in the form of a swan, rapes Leda. The swan is no longer associated with self-restraint; instead, it symbolizes destructive and violent desire. Similarly, in The Bee Parliament, bees—typically symbols of prosperity across cultures—are used to reflect societal hierarchies, highlighting the disconnect between symbolism of the social class and its expectations and actual societal roles and contributions.

Eliot extends this theme in his own work. The only external character (besides the mysterious "I") introduced in this stanza is a rat, a scavenger who feeds on the remains of the higher classes. It appears that the rat is further used to comment on the societal hierachy. Yet, much like Eliot's poem itself, which scavenges through the remains of literary tradition with its many references, the rat’s journey transcends mere class commentary. As it navigates through “bones,” “bodies,” and “bottles,” the rat appears to symbolize a deeper, spiritual decay—a loss of purpose resulting in from the hollow purposeless hierarchy it navigates.

Eliot's critique describes the spiritual void left by society’s obsession with status. In the poem, the "departed nymphs" and the "loitering heirs of City directors" have not only disappeared; instead, they’ve “left no addresses.” The use of the term “loitering” suggests existence without purpose. This notion directly mirrors individuals who attempt to elevate themselves within a superficial social structure, only to find that their efforts are meaningless. Additionally, Eliot’s emphasis on the heirs leaving “no addresses” describes an inability to reach or connect with those lofty ideals. It creates a sense of wandering without any guidance or direction, similarly to those who try to elevate themselves but find that their efforts lead to emptiness. Eliot also implies these emptiness within this line – “no addresses” symbolize their disappearance without any reminder of their existence. The use of “left” creates an idea of their direct responsibility in this outcome: it is their reliance on the societal status and, therefore, inability to find clear purpose and built any sort of actual legacy that lead to their meaningless being. They have disappeared without a trace, their lives, built upon these artificial hierarchies, have left no impact and will soon be forgotten (or rather have already been forgotten).

The animal allegories Eliot references and the rhetoric of his poem itself reference the societal hieracrchy that devoids its inhabitants of any sense of purpose. These superficial hierarchical orders have replaced any sense of connection and actual purpose, leaving behind the readers and the poem itself feeding off of this decay.

In the first part of The Game of Chess, the female character is isolated and defined by the lifeless objects surrounding her—perfumes, glass, candle flames, lacquer, and more. Only through these objects, do we get a chance to become acquainted with her. These inanimate items symbolize suffocation and entrapment in her loneliness. The readers can only speculate if it’s the notion of rape that Eliot continuoulsy references that led to this isolation. No matter the cause of it, however, the character strives to get herself out of this situation. She strives for human connection. Her plea, “Speak to me,” reflects this need, but the absence of a question mark in “Why do you never speak to me” suggests that the character already knows the answer. The reader, however, is left to speculate: does she see herself as undesirable because of her trauma? Or is it simply the years of a relationship that deteriorate this connection referencing Eliot’s own troubled marriage? In either case, this emotional disconnect is further demonstrated by the subsequent question, “What are you thinking of?” This time, the question is marked by a question mark, suggesting an actual attempt to break through this emotional barrier. These attempts, however, are ineffective, as the desperation rises and the questions shorten to “what thinking” and “what.” This fragmented monologue mirrors the fragmentation of her emotional state.

In contrast, the second character suffers from the destructive excess of human connection. Shamed for her appearance, she faces the reality of her partner’s potential infidelity, reflected in the statement, “And if you don’t give it to him, there’s others.” The references to abortion intensify this degradation. She justifies her loss of beauty and confidence with the line, “It’s them pills I took, to bring it off.” Instead of finding fulfillment in connection, this character’s relationships strip her of her self-worth.

In these two cases, Eliot presents women trapped at the opposite extremes of human connection: one suffers from its absence, the other from its destructive abundance. Yet, in both cases, external forces define and entrap them. The first woman is reduced to the objects around her, while the second is judged by an external voice—the pronoun “I” suggesting our, as readers, own judgment projected onto the character. We become not simply the judges, but also the victimes of this broken connection. The poem’s fragmented language, which severely affects our understanding of it, mirrors the emotional chaos, invoking feelings rather than rationality, similarly to Ophelia’s “mad” song in Hamlet.

This pattern mirrors the nature of chess, where a single wrong move can drastically alter the entire game. Just as in chess, life’s unpredictability is highlighted in these women’s lives, as one extreme of human connection can quickly shift to another, with equally devastating outcomes. The title of the section, The Game of Chess, thus, reflects this instability —one wrong move leads to extremes of connection. In this case, these characters and we, as readers, are not simply entrapped in this game. Instead, we are playing with an unwinnable position from the very outset: each move only brings the inevitability of loss closer.

Breaking Eliot’s own pattern, the line between life and death is not blurred for the female characters; instead, they are murdered physically, spiritually, and emotionally, with no possibility of redemption.

In Ovid’s story of Philomela, King Tereus rapes her and, to ensure her silence, cuts out her tongue. Philomela seems to reclaim her control through her transformation into a nightingale, but even this reclamation is deceptive. On the surface, it appears as if she has regained her voice as a bird; yet only male nightingales can sing. The perceived revenge is hollow, as she remains voiceless. In a similar hollow attempt of revenge, Philomela’s sister, Procne, directs her rage not at Tereus but at their son. Tereus, the primary perpetrator of the violence, thus, becomes only a secondary victim of his brutality, while the raped Philomela and the now childless Procne bear the consequences of his violence.

Interestingly, Ovid describes Tereus’s violent intents as “the flame of love”(Ovid,3) that has undertaken him. In this case, love gains a perverse connotation – what tends to be a source of warmth, becomes an all-consuming fire, synonymous with lust and destruction.

Eliot’s reference to Cupid, traditionally a symbol of romantic love, is similarly ironic. On the surface, Cupid represents love, yet his story reveals the same pattern of female disempowerment. Cupid falls in love with a mortal - Psyche. She is passive, with others dictating her fate. In the so-called happy ending, Cupid brings her to Olympus, where Zeus grants her immortality. However, this transformation, similarly to Philomela’s, is controlled entirely by male figures. None of these female characters seem to regain any control over their fates.

Eliot described nightingale’s voice in reference to Ovid’s myth as “inviolable” or unbreakable. The use of this word is once again ironic – the character’s voice is taken away from her in both her human and bird existences. Eliot follows up this irony of false hope with a line “And still she cried, and still the world pursues.” The use of past tense for a verb “cried” signifies a cry that has already ended, further emphasizing her inability to voice her pain. The world, however, “still pursues.” The double emphasis on the word “still” shows the consistent persecution and implies absolutely no justice for the female characters. “Pursue” itself can carry violent connotations, meaning “to follow or chase someone or something, especially in order to catch them,” (Oxford Dictionary) reinforcing the idea of female victimization and helplessness.

While Eliot’s vision often blurs the boundaries between life and death, for the women of A Game of Chess and their mythic counterparts, these lines are brutally drawn. Their fate is not ambiguous—it is absolute. They are erased, their voices silenced, leaving them trapped in a world where love is violence, survival is silence, and any hope of redemption is only ironic.

The cyclical nature of existence recurs through The Burial of the Dead and reappears in these lines. Only at the end of the first section, however, do we gain insight into the speculation about the culprit of this pattern: the weight of historical precedents.

In De Nerval’s dream record, the protagonist’s memories define him, trapping him in a loop where past experiences overshadow his present. He questions his current value through the lens of his “previous existences” (De Nerval, 12). As he himself states, “even death cannot set us free, for we live on in our sons just as we have lived in our fathers”(De Nerval, 11). This statement signifies the legacies and burdens of the past that weigh down the following generations, dooming them to repeat the fate of their ancestors. These past experiences don’t allow the character to embrace his present or envision a different future. The narrator describes a fear of “forever” being “classified among the unfortunate” (De Nerval, 13). The emphasis on “forever,” when describing his present experiences, shows the neverending cycle: today’s experiences transform into tomorrow’s burdens, hindering any future progression and evoking an idea of entrapment.

Eliot describes a similar pattern. When talking about a flower that grows out of a corpse he is concerned that “the sudden frost disturbed its bed.” Previously, winter with its frost was described to “keep” the corpses “warm” (5). Here, Eliot reveals two contrasting persectives: the frost preserves the lifeless bodies while simultaneously preventing new life from emerging. This concept is analogous to the one described by De Nerval. The frosted land symbolizes the past experiences, which, while fostering the gone lifeless memories, simultaneously diminish any chance of a brighter future. The concept of inhibition of time is further reflected as Eliot describes a passage of time as having a “dead” sound. As I have noted in my annotation before, the “stroke of nine” evokes Dante’s nine circles of hell, illustrating a society confined in eternal suffering, devoid of progression. Just as Dante’s sinners exist outside of time, Eliot’s characters reflect a modern hell, fixated on their past and unable to move forward.

The shadows of the past haunt the dreams of De Nerval and travel to The Waste Land, entombing the present and suffocating any possibility of a future. With this paradox, the readers gain insight into the reasoning behind the cyclical entrapment of humanity: the fixation on the past experiences. Thus, De Nerval’s subconsciousness in his dreams and Eliot’s thought-out poem invoke a similar question: Can society ever break free from the shadows of its history, or are we doomed to “forever” remain in a generational cycle trapped in the waste land of our own making?

Eliot blurs the line between life and death, not in the traditional sense of resurrection, but through a form of parasitism, where the death of one sustains the life of another.

He seemingly takes the idea of death giving life from the myth of Hyacinthus and Apollo. Apollo unintentionally kills Hyacinth, a “beautiful” young boy “beloved by Apollo”(Lempriere). After the murder, Apollo changes him into a flower, creating a new form of life. Apollo, however, never regains his own vitality, physically or spiritually. Hyacinthus, the festival supposedly in his honor, only emphasizes his death, and, instead, celebrates Apollo and vegetation. Hyacinthus’s death comes to signify a cycle of life, while he himself plays no role; instead, his death fuels the renewal of others.

Eliot alludes to this myth through the symbol of a hyacinth, referencing a “hyacinth girl.” The “hyacinth girl” relates to Emily Hale, who becomes Eliot’s muse, giving life to his poems. This creative relationship, however, drains Hale’s own life, severely diminishing her health. Eliot describes that his continuous letters “tamper insidiously with” her “mind” and terms himself a “bloodsucker” (Eliot’s letters, cited in The New Yorker), directly referencing the idea of parasitism.

Similar notion persists within the poem's context. In a scene on a London Bridge, he introduces a shift in his previous themes of depersonalization and dehumanization. “Each man,” is recognized not only though their “feet,” which signify their working abilities, but through their “eyes” (65), symbolizing their regained souls. Additionally, the use of “each” creates an idea of their individual existence, moving away from the collective depersonalization. This passage, however, appears only after the crowd “fixed” their “eyes” and gazed down at the land of corpses. Eliot blurs the boundary between life and death by showing how the living can regain their humanity through witnessing death: the confrontation with mortality revives the living.

Eliot’s exploration of life and death reveals a parasitic cycle where the living regain individuality and creativity only by exploiting the dead, whether through physical corpses or emotional sacrifices. In this vicious cycle, new life emerges from another’s demise.

An echo of a social superiority or a carefully crafted illusion? Through recurring religious analogies, Eliot compels the reader to continuously revisit this question throughout the entirety of the first section.

Eliot constructs the title of the poem to immediately invoke religious analogies with its reflection of Cristian rites. In front of God and after death, humans are judged equally no matter the nationality or their wealth status. Following the Great War, however, there is a social divide. One of the characters states, “Bin gar keine Russin, stamm aus Litauen, echt deutsch,” suggesting a hierarchical superiority between nationalities. The emphasis on the “gar” (not at all) implies the disdain and embarassment associated with what is perceived to be an inferior ethnicity. Interestingly, while in this scenario, German is regarded as a superior nationality to Russian, “deutsch” (german) is written with a lowercase “d,” while “Russin” is capitalized, revealing the artificiality of the statement. This inconsistency in the capitalization can be traced later in the poem with a capitalization of “Dog,” further intensifying the absurdity of the idea of social superiority. Eliot challenges the reader with a question: who is superior -– the lowercase German, the “gar keine” Russian, or even a Dog?

The created social divide and the hierarchal structures emphasize a discontinuous connection with the divine. The narrator states, “I see crowds of people walking in a round of ring” (56). In a couple of lines, Eliot connects this movement with a Christian reference, as the clock rings a “final stroke of nine” with “a dead sound” (68). The recent reference to a circular ring that traps people and the use of “final,” “nine,” and “dead” in the sentence invite an imagery of Dante’s nine circles of hell. In this closed, locked, confined environment, there is no progression: the society is trapped in a state of eternal stagnation. This state juxtaposes the illusion of power on Earth. This human ring becomes, in a sense, a tenth terrestrial circle of hell: there is no way out from a circular ring, no progression, and, thus, no connection with the divine. Additionally, the fact that the narrator doesn’t participate in the activity and is, instead, just observing the act creates an idea of the narrator’s own superiority crafted within the writing.

The readers of the poem are no better. Eliot concludes the poem with a statement, “You! hypocrite lecteur!” (76). and extends this critique to the reader, who, similarly to the narrator himself, acts as an observer and might experience a sense of this elevation over the described patterns. Eliot, however, ends the poem reminding us that we too fall victims to the illusion of power in a modern society.

Eliot’s preliminary version of “The Waste Land” quotes a character in Greek mythology mentioned in Satyricon — Sybil. In the original story, Sybil asks Apollo to grant her an eternal life. Petronius, the author of Satyricon, however, describes her desire to escape this reality and avoid the consequences of her decisions through her statement of how she “used to” say she “wants to die” (Petronius, 4). The direct use of “I want” in her statement underscores a personal, deliberate decision, while the sentence’s structure conveys an understanding of personal accountability and a desire to escape its consequences. Additionally, “used to” signifies a habitual pattern, which, in turn, reflects a conscious and repetitive effort to avoid dealing with the reality of her actions.

A protagonist in the preliminary version of “The Waste Land” exhibits a similar behavior. He understands his actions and the consequences they may bear. Despite his irresponsible behavior, however, Myrtle offers him a bed and a bath. In turn, he describes her as “always” being “a good sport” (Eliot, 34) The use of “always” implies a pattern in his decisions and, thus, an understanding of what his actions could lead to. As the policeman arrives, he uses his connection to Mr. Donovan to avoid any consequences. The light-heartedness and amusement in the tone of the passage further illustrate a repetitive behavior: the character comprehends the consequences of his actions but knows he won’t bear any responsibility. This tone and an implication of a habit underscore the character’s understanding of how to escape the consequences of his actions rather than how to confront them directly.

In his revision, Eliot uses more complicated scenes and disguised imagery to discuss a similar pattern. He showcases the desire to avoid responsibility as the narrator describes an act of staying in the mountains and “going south in the winter.” This line serves as a metaphor for a physical and psychological attempt to escape. Additionally, Eliot further complicates this argument in his revision through an addition of a passive aspect of shifting responsibility. The narrator of the poem attributes action verbs to months of the year, creating an idea of a shifted responsibility: “winter kept” people “warm” and summer “surprised” them “with rain.” This climatic paradox could signify the ecological consequences of industrialization that Eliot references further in the poem. The attribution of action verbs to seasons of the year, however, creates an impression of the nature’s own responsibility for these weather anomalies.

In both preliminary and final versions of “The Waste Land,” Eliot describes and critiques a lack of personal responsibility in a modern society. Through habitual behaviors, climatic analogies, and a writing tone, he illustrates how individuals consciously or subconsciously avoid facing the consequences of their actions.

“Live,” “cause to live,” and “eat food” (Frazer, 6) are the primary human needs that need to be satisfied or this humanity “must cease to exist” (Frazer, 6). Sir James George Frazer describes this social concept, prominent in the past, in The Golden Bough. If, as Eliot tends to explore in his earlier poems, history is a slow and degrading concept, this statement would have to stand true in a modern world. “The Waste Land,” however, refutes this argument from the title and throughout its verses.

Here, Eliot describes the land that is “waste[d]” introducing the reader to the question of what it means to “cease to exist.” The line between life and death is blurred and the corporeal death doesn’t bother the author: while the described “land” is physically present, its potential turns into “waste”. Eliot explores this concept of figurative death further in the poem through the imagery of a “dead tree” (Eliot, 23) that “gives no shelter” (23), a “dry stone” (24) that bears “no water,” and a “leer Meer” (42), a German phrase meaning “the empty sea.” In these lines, similarly to the title, the focus is not on the literal ceasing of existence, but on a lack of purpose and a squandered potential.

Additionally, the last phrase, written in German, directly connects this changed perspective to the First World War, with Germany starting the offensive operation. Eliot directly connects the wasted potential and a spiritual decline to the military action, when he follows up a description of a corpse with “mon semblable, – mon frere,” a French phrase for “my fellow man, my brother.” This line underscores a fundamental equality between the living and the dead in a world marked by spiritual and emotional barrenness. In this post-war context, individuals, much like a dead tree, a dry stone, or an empty sea, may physically exist but have lost their sense of purpose and, thus, cannot be termed alive.

"The Waste Land," starting from the title, transcends the literal interpretation of death and, instead, engages with a more nuanced exploration of how life’s potential can be wasted. Existing becomes a hollow act without a sense of purpose. With this title, Eliot invites the reader to think about the meaning of existence: does simply occupying space count?