Peace requires madness. As we’ve learned during our progression through The Waste Land, destruction is prevalent and peace only exists in emptiness; it is far from the natural state of human existence. But, for society to transition from the war-shattered state lamented by Eliot and achieve Shantih, madness is a paradoxically clarifying force purification. Considering Eliot’s allusions in the closing lines, this truth emerges in The Spanish Tragedy, Dante’s Inferno, and, in a broader sense, lies within the rich tradition of Hinduism that Eliot invokes as a conclusion.

Reminiscent of King Lear, Hieronymo’s madness enables him to speak truths and engage in actions that would otherwise be obscured by shrouds of propriety. The play within a play structure, where Hieronymo “uses real daggers instead of prop daggers,’ exemplifies this perfectly. Initially, it seems like utter “madness” for one to eliminate the boundary between acting and living, fiction and reality. In reality, this deed-simultaneously ironic entertainment for the court, a cathartic release for Hieronimo, and a revelation of truth–is masterful: “It must be so for the conclusion/Shall prove the invention and all was good…And all shall be concluded in one scene.” Emerging from “the invention” of madness, we achieve a conclusion of poetic justice, wherein the ignobly performative court’s treachery is resolved through creative performance. From madness emerges peace for poor old Hieronimo.

“Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina,” the line that Eliot specifically pulls from Dante’s Inferno, can be translated as “then he hid himself in the fire that refines him.” Fire is madness: a literally infernal force that reduces integral structures to ash. But within this madness, there is a certain calculated beauty, a scientific precision in its consumption and a resplendence in its tendrils reaching into the air. And when one is immersed in this madness, while their physical state might undergo quite a marked transformation, there is an ideal of “refine[ment]” that is markedly present. Parallels between Hieronimo being refined–enabled to speak marked truths and enact justice without being societally constrained–by the agonizing suffering, although less tangible than in Inferno, of losing a loved one and refinement in fire emerge; both are purgatorial states.

While I shall not delve too deeply into these for the sake of space and to avoid further stating the (perhaps) obvious, this notion of states of madness being disorienting and decivilizing but purifying is also present in the Grail story, wherein the Fisher King’s impotency and ineptitude can be seen as madness, Philomela’s story, in which the madness of swallow conversion is necessary for a metamorphic restoration of voice, and Nerval’s El Dedischado where the Prince goes through the madness of losing his great tower as part of a journey towards some greater sense of justice. Rather, I shall offer a personal reflection which I now believe is of literary significance. As a young Indian–hopefully with much vitality ahead of me–the tradition of cremation–literal purification by fire, paralleling the depiction in Dante’s Inferno–has been somewhat fear-inducing for me. The idea of a sharp transition from physical existence to dispersed ashes is a scary one; there is no grave that remains to physically commemorate one’s existence. However, the alternative is to be stuck in an existential liminal space, physically extant but otherwise absent. It is to linger in The Waste Land: a space that lacks purpose and is characterized by a paradoxical duality of emptiness and synthetic chaos. Perhaps, I now think, it is better to embrace Inferno and let madness purify us. Eliot’s choice to situate Hieronimo as “mad againe’ right before calling for datta, dayadhvam and damyata as an avenue towards peace is not an accidental one. Eliot translates Shantih as “The Peace which passeth understanding.” To pass on understanding, accepting that a better reality is beyond rationality, is madness: the cost of peace.

The idea of the commonality of da in datta, dayadhvam and damyata is most intriguing to me. It has a certain sense of universality as it is given to gods, humans, and demons alike. Yet, from this universality, and the implication that Prajāpati only verbalizes the one syllable da, three distinct meanings–give, sympathize, and control–emerge, perhaps with corresponding roles assigned to those who derived the meanings. Extending this logic, we can take dayadhvam as most relevant for the study of human experience–indeed a primary goal of modernism–especially as Eliot chooses to note a connection between it and Dante’s Inferno.

Let us consider the specific construction that stems from dayadhvam in TWL: “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.” Immediately, a striking inversion of the roles of prison and key emerges. The key “confirms a prison” instead of simply being a component within a prison’s larger network of functional objects. Also, the idea of ‘hear[ing] a key is an interesting one” because one can conventionally only hear a key’s impact upon another item, perhaps a jingle or jangle, and not the inanimate key itself. Thus, it is reasonable to assume that the key is not a conventional piece of forged metal; rather, it seems to be some sort of living entity. Then, given dayadhvam’s direct correlation with humanity, the key can be taken as a metaphor, an entity that represents how captivity-inducing institutions, like prisons, are projections of human consciousness. Extending the chain of inversion that started with keys and prisons, it is almost as if a prison is confirming a human rather than the human conceptualizing the prison. Thematically, this is representative of the primal and innate tendency towards subjugation, towards oppressive institutions like prisons, that is disturbingly present within humans. Also, the fact that this rather sad imagery surrounding prisons is juxtaposed with the ideology of dayadhvam, a rather sweet notion of sympathy, is jarring. Following his colon, rather than defining or clarifying dayadhvam as conventional grammar might suggest, it seems that Eliot is providing a counterfactual for the true nature of this ideal.

Dante’s Inferno also contains a fundamental inversion, that of traditional values surrounding sympathy and familial love. The scene where the children ask for their father to consume them is beyond disturbing: “Father, we would suffer less if you would feed on us: you clothed us in this wretched flesh—now strip it off.” Typically, children seek loving sympathy and validation from their parents. Here, we see the complete opposite end of the spectrum where the children see their existence as “wretched” enough to be worthy of deeming them logical victims of cannibalism. How has the world reached a point where children have been robbed of their innocence to this most grotesque extent? One possible explanation, although perhaps not quite sufficient to explain the magnitude of depravity depicted here, is that there has been a perversion of nobility that enables horrible deeds to be committed with false justifications. Cannibalism has gone from a horrible crime to a relief from a world of tensions. This seems to be a consequence of a state where keys define prisons, one where control over the instinct for subjugation has been utterly lost.

Between bones, dehydration, drowning, and infertility, TWL can be a rather depressing poem. But, as a reader–a delusional optimist at times–this section, in a grotesque way, seems to offer an interpretation of “waste land” as a space where great suffering can give rise to a new enlightenment. One can find this “optimism” at the intersection of Russian and Buddhist thought, a rejection of morality and societal structures, even at the most fundamental level, as continuous entities.

In his analysis of The Brothers Karamazov, Hesse writes that “when a culture, one of these attempts to domesticate man, gets tired and begins to decay…they become hysterical, develop strange lusts, become like young people in puberty or like women in child-birth.” By associating the loss of “culture” with a primal sense of “The Asiatic, the chaotic, the savage, the dangerous, the amoral,” Hesse states that even constructs that we typically assume as continuous across the spectrum of human civilization, pertaining to a innate desire to curb chaos and seek civility, are subject to erosion and reconstruction. Forces far more fundamental than those that we typically see as cultural–more conventional examples could include cuisine, language, traditions–are subject to the same cycle of “decay.” Initially, the notion that the constructs that keep us from brutally maiming each other are merely “cultural” seems deeply negative, not optimistic. Indeed, it must be conceded that this idea is most fear-inducing. But, turning to Hesse’s thoughts on the state that lies beyond the suffering of “decay,” although bitter, is perhaps more optimistic: “in that fearful, dangerous, painful stage, mankind must look again into its own soul, must see the beast arise in itself again, must again recognize the overlordship of the primeval forces in itself, forces which are super-moral.” So, this state of suffering is a necessary one. Since human memory is a frail thing and one cannot possible expect some overriding loyalty to morality to prevail through eons, there is likely to be a state where morality is cast aside, great suffering is endured–a return to the “primeval”–and humanity can forge a new understanding of “moral” living before donning the robes of a new “culture.”

Strikingly a similar message arises in the Buddhist Visuddhi-Magga where it is written that “it is on account of the concealment afforded by this adventitious adornment that people fail to recognize the essential repulsiveness of their bodies.” Let us consider a Buddhist’s ultimate aim of Nirvana: a state that, according to the SPICE Institute, requires the “elimination of all greed, hatred, and ignorance within a person.” But, if these immoral forces are covered by “adventitious adornment,”–or “culture” in the sense of Hesse–how can one possibly comprehend their existence? And if one cannot comprehend their failings, how can they eliminate them? Thus, paradoxically, there arises a necessity for suffering as a prerequisite for the attainment of a more enlightened state.

Given that Eliot’s note in reference to the “sound high in the air” offers a direct connection to Hesse, perhaps the state depicted of a “Murmur of maternal lamentation” and “hooded hordes swarming” is representative of the middle state where norms are being eschewed and a return to the primal is occurring. The lamentation of mothers, an expression of sadness that arises from among the purest forms of love, suggests that something has gone tragically wrong. The image conjured by the words “hooded hordes” swarming is a deeply primal and far from a more “cultur[ed” one such as perhaps an orderly procession on a city street. As an aside, another interpretation that strikes me here is that these lines directly refer to the actions of soldiers in wartime because “endless plains” and “cracked earth” are apt descriptors for the trenches and no man’s land that defined the battlefields of WWI while “hooded hordes” could be composed of helmeted soldiers. In either case, the present state is one of desolation. However, per rich Russian and Buddhist tradition, optimism–although of a rather unsavory variety–is not unreasonable.

In his annotation from last year, Parth draws a very interesting parallel between the onomatopoeic dripping of water and atonal music: “this onomatopoeia…lacks a concrete framework with which the notes—"drip" and "drop"—arrange themselves, nor does it have a "triad" that the notes "drip" and "drop" must return to.” Parth goes on to interpret the atonality of water as related to purity and constancy. Building on-bending, if you will-Parth’s analysis, an interesting added dimension here is that, if the grounded reality of this section is atonal, the portions where water is hypothetically present induces a more perplexing state because we are goaded with the almost tangible yet unrealizable presence of abundant water. Music traditionally has key because it is pleasant and reassuring for eon-conditioned human ears and consciousnesses. So, by creating tension between atonally dripping water and the promise of abundant water, Eliot casts the presence of water as a more abstract and less certain entity.

This interpretation has some logical basis because, unlike atonal music which is characterizable despite being disorienting at first, the water here only exists in the mind of the speaker who is yearning for hydration, ostensibly beyond the absolute comprehension of even the most astute scholar in a similar way to how the water is beyond the speaker’s scope of consumption. This taunting absence is extended even to sweat, which is somehow “dry” and “sterile” thunder which offers the promise of torrential rain and salvation but never actually offers such a luxury. Also, in analyzing the promise of water, the contrast between it–the most essential substance for human life and rocks–rather useless objects–is also quite interesting. Rocks are quite abundant but “Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think.” Thus, at an obvious level, a broader interpretation here is that Eliot is highlighting the criticality of certain substances to human existence and vividly illustrating the unique torture of not having access to them through the creation of a hypothetical. However, an added layer of nuance can be unlocked by contrasting Eliot with Keats.

Of course, Keats’ work is a more optimistic one in that it casts nature as offering realizable solace while Eliot creates a dynamic verging on torture. More interesting, however, is the contrasting messages on renewal that emerge. Despite not necessarily providing detailed reasoning, indeed rejecting convoluted thought processes generally–as he writes to “fret not after knowledge–I have none”–Keats suggests the presence of some larger force that will assure renewal and ensure that “spring will be a harvest-time.” Eliot, on the other hand, offers an abundance of twisting, looping, and otherwise confusing thoughts on water’s presence, or the lack thereof, and by extension suggests that renewal, which requires water, is not guaranteed. In TWL, there is only the rawness of nature and the speaker, no larger force that allows one to exist in the bliss of having no knowledge and believing in external forces.

Tying this message on optimism back into my preceding analysis on Eliot’s gauding with water in a wasteland where there is no water–interspersing comfort-inducing tone-into atonal music–the more profound commentary of this section seems to be that humans exist in an inherently frail state where the lack of even the simplest substance of water–that is taken for granted with increasing frequency as development grows–can render us impotent and open to the emotional manipulation that the speaker in this section suffers as he yearns for water, a reflection of his physical suffering.

Within the first two lines of “Death by Water,” Eliot crafts a striking contradiction by defying the traditional association of death inducing discontinuity. Conventionally, at least in the context of physical existence and associated memory, death is the ultimate end. Post-death states such as ascending to heaven or descending to hell tend to be discrete constructions rather than ambiguous extensions of one’s life. Yet, Eliot depicts Phlebas as forgetting “the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell” only after he is “a fortnight dead,” meaning that for the fortnight between his death and this scene Phlebas has been in some undefined state of being physically dead while retaining a capacity for memory. So, if we take this ambiguity as intentional on Eliot’s part, we must next question its purpose.

One interpretation is that this memory ambiguity uniquely enables Eliot to create a middle space between life and death:a space within which “Death by Water” is situated. In this middle space–the fortnight of memory remaining after physical existence’s cessation–Eliot, in an intensely concentrated way, investigates how the pressures of nautical life bring Phlebas from being “handsome and tall” to having his “bones picked in whispers.” In analyzing this progression, considering the longer version of this section is most useful. If the published version is the essence of a sailor’s diminution, the raw form offers context on its roots.

Specifically, there is a suggestion that the sea–an inherently fluid entity that lacks the constancy of land–erodes some portion of a man’s consciousness. In the final version, Eliot writes that “A current under sea/Picked his bones in whispers/As he rose and fell/He passed the stages of his age and youth.” This passage makes the sea sound like some sort of jackal-like scavenger as it “picked…bones.” Furthermore, given that they are tied to currents which progress rather cyclically and rapidly, there is a suggestion that “stages of...age and youth” are passing in some undeveloped and unnatural way that is not conducive to appropriate human development. Of course, if we see this period as a microcosm of a sailor’s larger life, it is not literal bones that are being picked. Turning to the longer draft version, it seems that the “bones” being picked in this case are moral ones because it is suggested that, when returned to land from the sea, sailors have limited moral backbones and are rather corrupted individuals: “Even the drunken ruffian who descends/Illicit backstreet stairs, to reappear/For the derision of his sober friends/Staggering, or limping with a comic gonorrhea.” The sailors, united with Phlebas by the bond of the sea, are plagued with “gonorrhea,” implying potentially immoral promiscuity. The notion that they are “Staggering, or limping” is also interesting because there is a potential implication that a life on the shifting deck of a ship has rendered them unable to concretely walk upon the stable land; this is quite a fascinating paradox of instability in a stable space.

The idea of immoral sailors is further explored in De Quincey’s work as he writes that “Her running was the running of panic…from me she fled as from another peril, and vainly I shouted to her of quicksands that lay ahead.” Even given the clear presence of quicksand, the girl assesses the sailor to be a greater threat. It is quite interesting to see how this seems to reinforce Eliot’s commentary on sailors being damaged by the sea and extends to even suggest that they are dangerous to society. In a broader sense, this could be seen as commentary on the human tendency towards exploration at all costs. The vast sea is immensely alluring; yet, we must be careful of how we interact with it and let it influence us, lest we too suffer the fate of Phlebas.

As a natural extension of my passion for IR, the history of Carthage has long fascinated me. Carthage is a prime, although far from straightforward, exemplification of the “Thucydides Trap,” a phenomenon where there is an inherent tendency towards conflict when a rising power threatens the dominance of an established hegemony. In Carthage’s case, this conflict manifested in the three Punic Wars where power fluctuated between Rome and Carthage. Most strikingly, it is Carthage’s almost fanciful obsession with controlling minor powers of little relevance–such as Numidia–that ultimately enabled its subjugation by room.

Now, moving from grand IR theories to the perhaps more relevant realm of literary analysis, let us consider how Carthage’s history ties to Augustine’s “Confessions,” naturally on a personal level rather than a state one. Augustine writes of a life obsessed with trivialities and superficialities: “Stage-plays also carried me away, full of images of my miseries, and of fuel to my fire.” He suggests that human desire is somehow distorted beyond a state of natural connection with God and nature, writing of a “cauldron of unholy loves.” Note how the imagery of a “cauldron,” a burning entity, correlates with the previous passage on superficial “Stage-plays” being “of fuel to my fire.” Applying our IR analogy here, Augustine–representing Carthaginian people–is the rising power and nature–or at least some force more fundamental than petty plays and floating whimsies–is the established hegemon. And as in real life, where Carthage was horribly subjugated by Rome–“50,000 Carthaginians were sold into slavery…the city was set ablaze and razed to the ground, leaving only ruins and rubble” according to Wikipedia–one possible interpretation from TWL, made possible by Eliot’s lack of punctuation, is that Carthage is the entity that is “Burning burning burning burning,” destroyed by its vanity and lack of groundedness.

But, burning is a lot more than a simple inducer of destruction. Indeed, the broader realm of Eliot’s allusions features burning as an act that can induce purification or relate to nobility. In Gotterdammerung, Brünnhilde “returns the ring to the Rhine maidens as she commits suicide on Siegfried's funeral pyre.” Through her valiant self-sacrifice, Brünnhilde brings a righteous end to the ring’s cycle of greed and destruction; her shattering of this perverse cycle leaves not even the complicit gods immune. Per Buddha’s “Fire Sermon,” the burning line’s direct source as referenced in Eliot’s notes, everything “All things..are on fire”; burning is all-consuming as it dominates every emotion and stage of life. But “burning” is not inherently negative here as it is only by recognizing one’s being in a state of “burning” and creating “aversion[s]” can one become free. The state of burning, insofar as it is naturally torturous, is necessary as part of the process by which one can break free of perverse constructions and strive towards nobility, or, in the case of Buddha and his disciples, nirvana.

So, bringing this full circle and returning to the analytical foundation of taking Carthage as a “burning” entity in TWL, Eliot’s placement of Buddha’s enlightenment philosophy alongside tales of destructive Carthaginian great power conflict, one sees a call for purification rather than simply catastrophe (potentially even optimistic). After acknowledging his “Burning burning burning burning,” with burning here being most simply defined as destructive, the speaker/Augustine seeks spirituality and nobility, asking that “O Lord” “pluckest” him “out.” As a result of this return to a more noble foundation, he reaches in line 311 a final state of “burning.” Could this burning be one of purification, a sign of moving beyond Carthage’s dark fate? Eliot seems to be suggesting that, just as states break free from the age old security dilemma that the Thucydides Trap truly as by setting aside aggressive expansionism for more moderate and localized policy, humans can find a better reality–an escape from their “Waste Land–by creating an “aversion” to the politics of superficiality and avarice, instead pursuing purification and simplicity.

Considering the typist’s intimacy, where her partner “assaults at once,” alongside water spider reproduction as depicted in Gourmant’s work reveals striking parallels. The man returns home and is met with “indifference” when he engages with his partner just as a male spider “breaks through the dividing wall and profits by the surprise of his sudden entry.” To Gourmont, this removal of mutual pleasure from the equation of reproduction is in line with his general emphasis on eschewing anthropocentric morality–as exemplified by his determination that “there is no lewdness which has not its normal type in nature.” To him, the scene depicted by Eliot is natural despite being in violation of conventional–at least modern–social constructions surrounding consent.

But, the issue with viewing human actions without anthropocentricity is that, regardless of the primal nature of its origins, humanity has unquestionably evolved beyond reproduction being purely animalistic. Along this line of reasoning, Eliot portrays the active proponent of the typist intimacy scene–analogous to a male spider–as “young man carbuncular.” The Oxford English Dictionary defines carbuncular as pertaining to either “a large precious stone of a red or fiery colour” (old English) or “any of various inflammatory or infective lesions of the skin.” Since fine gems are quite tangential while decay and disease are recurring themes in TWL, the second definition is likely more applicable to Eliot’s work. As a result, the parallel between the intimacies of Gourmand and Eliot is perverted by the creation of an association between gruesome sickness-that of the man’s abominable carbuncular “lesions”–and forced, inhuman intimacy. Indeed, Eliot paints the man’s intimacy as motivated by vanity, which “requires no response” of consent “And makes a welcome of indifference.” Considering that vanity is inherently not present within water spiders, this further supports Eliot’s rejection of non-anthropocentric thought processes surrounding intimacy.

Eliot adds a further element of complexity to this scene by positioning Tiresias–who is very much out of place in a time of “food in tins” and “gramophone[s]”–as the narrator. Interestingly, Tiresias seems coldly indifferent as he is “throbbing between two lives,” separated from tangible reality, and has “foresuffered all/Enacted on this same divan or bed.” This suggests that the typist’s perverse experience is all too common across the continuity of time, with Tiresias suspended between times conveying a message. However, perhaps more fascinating is the tension between Tiresias’ opinion that intimacy is more pleasurable for women, as told in Ovid, and the pragmatic sadness of what Eliot depicts in the case of the typist. While the gods in Ovid do seem a touch petulant, one possible interpretation of Eliot’s intentions is highlighting that Tiresias was originally wrong–meaning that his punishment of blinding is appropriate. Tiresias’ state of having “the power to see the future, pairing pain with prophecy,” in the context of his cold narration of the typist’s assault, suggests that his prophetic life is one where he suffers while anticipating then viewing in real time the implications of misunderstanding human intimacy.

On the other end of the spectrum from the cold brutality of Gourmont and Eliot is Donne’s portrayal of an elaborate conceit–where a lover is compared to a wonderful and unexplored land–in which intimacy is sought through persuasion and an appeal to authentic connection rather than coercion. Perhaps, this is a better model, one that is free of “carbuncular” blemishes and more logically applied to anthropocentrically contemplating human intimacy.

Edward Carpenter’s “Towards Democracy” evidently offers an utopian vision for humanity’s future, one where there is “a great land poised as in a dream—waiting for the kiss and the re-awakening…a great land waiting for its own people to come and take possession of it.” In parallel, Carpenter critiques industrialization, contrasting the “sob and gasp of pumps and the solid beat of steam and tilt-hammers” with “beautiful centuries-grown villages and farmhouses.” Interestingly, Carpenter seems to be suggesting that humanity has the potency to “take possession” of a better future with a “kiss” that leads to “re-awakening”; his utopia is paradoxically a realizable one, within human reach. In questioning the feasibility of Carpenter’s vision in the context of Eliot’s work, Verlaine’s “Parsifal” offers striking parallels.

The King in need of curing, like the land in Carpenter’s poem, needs the “kiss” of The Holy Spear to cure his ailments and return to health. To attain this “kiss,” the King needs Parsifal, “a young man who knows nothing about the evil of the world and who can resist the beauty of the flower-maidens.” But the issue with this poem is that it places excess strain on the inherently morally frail human race. Even assuming that a human has the moral fortitude to overcome “inclination…towards the Flesh,” there is no human who “conquered Hell” with its endless vice and infernal tribulations. And thus, we realize a critical tension present in the opening of “The Fire Sermon.”

In and of itself, drawn from a deeply optimistic poem, Eliot's use of the line “Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole” (And, O those children’s voices singing in the dome!) is deeply optimistic. But contrasting the preceding lines of “Parsifal,” full of a “virgin boy” virtuously overcoming temptation left and right, and TWL, where “rats” with “slimy bell[ies]” and “bodies naked on the white damp ground” alongside the “sound of horns and motors” paint a grim picture of urbanization and decay, reveals that this line's significance in TWL is vastly different. “Tak[ing] possession” of a better future is a noble goal. However, there seems to be no room for such pure nobility in the TWL as the kiss of “Parsifal,” a figment of inherently unattainable utopia, is infeasible in a waste land.

Eliot offers a motivation for the deep tension between delusional optimism and pragmatic realities by alluding to Marvell’s work: “at my back from time to time I hear/The sound of horns and motors.” The speaker in Marvell’s poem desires that his “vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires and more slow.” As an aside, there is a contradiction within Marvell’s use of “empires” because empires are typically relatively frail entities which “grow Vaster” with great speed but struggle to be “more slow” in sustaining themselves. But more to the point, the line Eliot specifically borrows from Marvell deals less with delusional, prolonged love and more with “Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near,” bound for a point where “beauty shall no more be found" and “quaint honour turn[s] to dust.” Perhaps if humans had endless time to relish life’s pleasantries and fulfill their desires with “coy mistress[es],” it would be possible to retain nobility. But when one seeks to realize infinite desire within the confines of limited time on Earth, an ignoble–perhaps even evilly hedonistic–method of existence is bound to prevail. For if humans doggedly pursue ambition, subconsciously driven by their mortality and finite existence, how will the virtue necessary for Carpenter’s delusional atavism ever come to fruition? If we are to regard TWL as a somewhat optimistic poem, some answer to this question should be identified.

Hamlet’s most famous line questions whether “to be, or not to be.” That is indeed the nihilistic question that seems to play upon Eliot’s mind as he writes “I think we are in rats’ alley/Where the dead men lost their bones.” Immediately, this image invokes a sense of urban decay and despair as the alley–presumably a home for humans–is possessed, grammatically and literally, by the “rats.” Additionally, Eliot’s notion of men who “lost their bones” is quite peculiar. In typical instances of human decomposition, flesh is lost immediately while bones persist for an extended period. While death and decomposition are naturally morbid affairs, Eliot seems to stretch their impact on erasing an individual’s vestiges by suggesting that their bones–the enduring structure that had carried them through life and is meant to remain intact for a period after death–are “lost.” Furthermore, the notion that these bones are lost in a rat-possesed alley rids the scenario of any shred of dignity that it could possibly have. So, why is Eliot ridding the process of decomposition–one’s material departure from Earth–of its natural duration, instead suggesting a more instant and final end to life?

Perhaps he is casting an argument towards the “not to be” side of Hamlet’s ballot by despairingly exaggerating the frailty of human life and the limited control one has over their existence. In the context of a “Game of Chess,” this argument makes much sense. During a chess game, each piece plays a critical role; even an advantage of one pawn can make all the difference in one’s endgame. Yet, even the potent queen is but a pawn in the overall quest to win the game and preserve the king. A lost piece is forever gone–barring the technicality of promotion–with no lingering bones to preserve its memory. Eliot seems to be suggesting that humans, too, are constantly manipulated, with their agency having limited meaning in a rats’–representative of some cabalistic (generally hidden/evil) controlling force–where not even their core structure of bones remains with them.

The irony of exercising agency despite ultimately being at the mercy of the rats who truly possess control emerges in Pound’s “The Game of Chess.” Pound writes that “these pieces are living in form/Their moves break and reform the pattern.” This is inherently paradoxical because it is impossible for a chess piece to be “living” and exercise agency to “break and reform” while also being pawns in the human player's larger strategic game. The ontology of a chess piece prevents it from having its own independent agency. Then, Pound’s closing phrase, “Renewing of contest,” furthers the notion of the pieces’ existences being transient because, after the King disappears “down in the vortex,” the board is reset and the distinct role of a piece in a specific game is banished to be an irrelevant relic of history. The only force that remains dominant and constant is the agency of the entity “renewing the contest,” the overlord that presides over many chess games and pieces. Thus, the suggestion at the convergence of Eliot and Pound seems to be that humans are but pawns in a larger game, inherently limited in agency and frail in nature.

In his annotation about “The Chair,” which is directly derived from “The barge” in Antony and Cleopatra, Parth points out that altering one word is “very much an Eliot technique.” He goes on to suggest that the motivations behind this change involve “elevating her to a much grander status.” While this is indeed quite plausible and Parth’s reasoning surrounding the capitalized “C” in chair is sound, another possibility is that the difference between a “barge” on the Nile and a chair grounded on “marble” has to do with flow and movement. In the continuity of sailing on a barge, despite being surrounded by the luxury of a burnish’d throne, there is a suggestion that Cleopatra is in harmony with nature as the water cooperates her: “Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke and made The water which they beat to follow faster, as amorous of their strokes” (2). While “beat[ing],” might seem negative, the fluid scene as a whole is depicted in a positive light as “flutes” play their sweet song, and the water is cooperatively following in some “amorous” manner. On the other hand, the unmoving “Chair” in TWL is surrounded by a sense of artificiality, even gloominess, as another Cupidon “hid[es] his eyes behind his wing,” and flames flicker from the “sevenbranched candelabra.” While the artificiality of the throne remains, Eliot’s choice to use “Chair” instead of “barge” reduces connection with the river’s natural flow.

This idea of flow is further developed by the contrasting presences of perfume in Cleopatra and TWL. Cleopatra is described as in a scene “so perfumed that The winds were love-sick with them.” Similar to the river amorously engaging with the barge, winds are “love-sick” due to perfume, suggesting a positive connection with nature. On the other hand, TWL has “strange synthetic perfumes” that “lurk” and are “Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused.” As with the marble-mounted chair, there is a greater sense of artificiality present here and much less of an organic flow.

So, what significance does this contrast between wind/river-driven organic flow hold as opposed to “synthetic” stagnancy? Here, Parth’s analysis once again proves useful: “in the original, Antony's love for Cleopatra is initially portrayed as favorable—likening Cleopatra to Venus, the goddess of love…On the other hand, love is tainted in this passage, either stirring trouble confusion, and drowning, or simply foreshadowing a catastrophe.” The pure love that Cleopatra once felt, one that flows like a barge on a river, has been replaced with a more grandiose but frail one that is “synthetic” and mounted upon marble. Perhaps this message on authentic love, arising from a deceivingly simple one word change, fits into Eliot’s continuous commentary on industrialized human societies inherent emotional limitations that we have been discussing on an ongoing basis.

Eliot’s closing line in “The Burial of the Dead” invokes Baudelaire to eliminate traditional poet-reader separation, to the point where the reader is a “semblable,” alike per conventional translation or more powerfully a “second self,” and a brother. It is interesting to note that, despite hypocrisy ostensibly being a negative, Baudelaire, and Eliot by extension, seek to make the bond between reader and poet a fraternal one, suggesting that there is something familial–genetic and immutable–that unites humans in their hypocrisy. So, in the context of “The Burial,” what is this most fundamental linkage of hypocrisy?

Perhaps, the specific hypocrisy at hand is that of humans’ tendency to live meaninglessly repetitive lives while maintaining false pretenses of value. Baudelaire assesses the danger of cyclicality, and its frailty, through his references to “seven”: his poem’s very title is “Seven Old Men,” a “sinister old man” is seen “seven times,” and there are “seven old hideous monsters.” While the possibility that seven is an arbitrary number does exist, the fact that Baudelaire chooses to repeat it in three negative contexts–as “old men” seem to lack vitality in this poem and the adjectives “sinister” and “hideous” have no common positive connotations–suggests there is a deeper meaning. The utilization of seven in a negative context becomes even more interesting when its seen as fundamentally at odds with the meaning of he seventh day more specifically in the Christian tradition; the seventh day is that of Sabbath’s rest and, per the Bible Study Organization, “the foundation of God's word” as it is “tied directly to creation and symbolizes completeness and perfection.” So, somehow humanity has gone from seven being a positive day of rest to seven having an overwhelmingly negative connotation.

Indeed, Baudelaire suggests that the closed loop of repetition within which seven was positive breaks: “must I, Undying, contemplate the awful eighth.” Undying, or more literally after having gone through many cycles of seven, the poet–and indeed the reader who is a fraternal “semblable”–are forced to exit and find some greater truth. One possible explanation of this greater truth emerges from responding to De Nerval's question on whether man is an “ill-fated particle, destined to go through endless transformations at the vengeful mercy of powerful beings” with a resounding yes. All routines are likely to be shattered when the underlying forces that enable them fall prey to the “vengeful mercy of powerful beings.” Eliot’s reference to “ships at Mylae” speaks to this because Eliot illustrates a continuity in human barbarity shattering routine by choosing to return to the First Punic War, one that occurred more than a thousand years before his time, instead of the far more recent WWI.

If routine, which is also depicted in “The Burial” as Eliot writes about the “crowd [that] flowed over London Bridge in which “each man fixed his eyes before his feet”–flowingly mindlessly through routine, is carefully revealed as frail hypocrisy, perhaps it is Eliot’s intention to encourage humans to break free of industrialized society’s machinstic whirrings and find spontaneity, to emerge from a liminal space where they are physically alive but mentally unpresent. Maybe this is the meaning of The Burial’s rather cryptic ending. If a “corpse” has the potential to “sprout” or “bloom,” it is inherently not completely lacking in physical vitality, making it a possibility that a “corpse” is a but a living entity that is too paralyzed by routine to realize emotional vitality; abandoning routine might be a path to transcend the status of “hypocrite lecteur.”

In his annotation from last year, Nate humorously yet sagely posits that Madame Sosostris “is ‘So-so’ in her divination abilities.” Nate reasons that the fine Madame, having “commercial[ized]” a pursuit of truth, is not a reliable source of prophecy. Extending this analysis surrounding the veracity of prophecy, it is useful to consider shortcomings in the fundamentals of Tarot.

Although not in explicit reference to Tarot, Weston writes on the questionable nature of logic that seeks to unite overly disparate threads of thought: “the result obtained is always quite satisfactory to the writer, often plausible, sometimes in a measure sound, but it would defy the skill of the most synthetic genius to coordinate the results thus obtained, and combine them in one harmonious whole (3).” In an abstract sense, this indictment harshly strikes Tarot. Converting the vague pictorial “results” of a Tarot card drawing into a “harmonious whole” of a prediction surrounding an individual’s perpetually changing future is an act that is truly beyond the skills of even the “most synthetic genius,” let alone a commercial sorceress.

In addition, Tarot is paradoxically backward facing in seeking to predict the future. A Tarot card contains a set of predetermined outcomes that, through likely faulty logic as discussed above, is converted to a prediction for a future. It must be noted that there is a human tendency to more easily accept that which has already happened especially when it is horrific, a reality that Sesotris harnesses: “Sesostris had a success of horror…’Is there going to be another war’ asked the old lady…’ Very soon, said Mr. Scogan.” The danger of using history to guide the future is that, alongside any virtue that might have existed, “horror” will inevitably re-emerge.

Loy offers a rejection of the contrived, backward-facing view exemplified by Tarot. She seems to suggest that veracity lies within the naked human, even if it might appear beyond reach: “A thousand women's eyes/Riveted to the unrealisable/Scatter the wash-stand of the card-teller” (Loy). First, drawing from later in the poem, it can be noted that these women are pure and untainted in their search of a “little love-tale” for our world, because Loy writes that “the nude woman/Stands for the world” (Loy). Then, given the continuity resulting from the poem’s lack of punctuation, one can take the womens’ rule as an active one of “Scatter[ing]” the “card-teller,” who is likely not too dissimilar to the fine Madame Sosotris. The fact they are “Riveted to the unrealisable” during this process suggests that Loy sees value in wishful thinking: a powerful tool that destructs the scam of Tarot in pursuit of greater truth.

Returning to Eliot, the scene of returning from the Hyacinth garden seems to echo Loy: "I could not Speak and my eyes failed...I knew nothing/Looking into the heart of light, the silence.” This scene depicts a remarkably raw simplicity where the speaker is left without their most fundamental faculties. Yet in this state, the polar opposite of that in which contrived Tarot readings are conducted, the speaker gains some profound insight “into the heart of light.” Breaking free from the chaos of history, “silence” prevails and something closer to truth is found.

In “The Service for the Burial of the Dead,” it is suggested that we “go forth and behold among the tombs that verily, man is but naked bones, corruption, and food for worms.” Of course, this is a terrifying visual. It is relatively certain that no conventionally sane individual appreciates the notion of being “food for worms.” Yet, there is a certain resonance in the core human bareness that this scene reveals. A lord buried clad in diamonds and a peasant carelessly tossed into the ground alike end up in the same state, “in a handful of dust.” So, perhaps the beauty of “The Waste Land,” beneath layers of convolution, is in its bareness?

In the Canterbury Tales, April is depicted as a month of vitality as “sweet-smelling showers’ and “tender new leaves” return to Earth (Chaucer 1). Eliot, too, recognizes this vitality. But instead of embracing April’s fruitfulness, he calls it “the cruellest month” and laments the rise of sweet “Lilacs out of the dead land” (Eliot 53). In the summer that follows April’s introduction of “cruel[ty],” scenes that are conventionally pleasant like “drink[ing] coffee” are painted (Eliot 53). But, Eliot seems to suggest that this vitality is superficial and allows us to delusionally wish away harsh problems. A parallel to this emerges in Brooke’s work where a character thinks equally of the notions that “some of his friends would be killed” and that “the Russian ballet wouldn’t return” (Brooke 2). A life of comfort and entitlement, of sweet Aprils, has brought him to the point where a friend’s life and ballet have equal standing in his mind.

The alternative abstractly illustrated by “The Waste Land” is one where “Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow” (Eliot 53) Winter is a far more barren time where, in the absence of pleasantries, one is forced to concentrate on the bare needs such as keeping warm and sourcing food. The “forgetful snow” is a force of simplification. Basevi’s idea that “the mentality, knowledge and experience of mankind in its most archaic and primitive condition” are “no less accurate and definite than now” is interestingly applicable here in that, despite its many advancements, humanity is still very much subject to the most “archaic and primitive” requirements of winter survival (1).

So, if “The Waste Land” can be taken as a barren place with limited potential for the acquisition of April’s luxuries, it can be seen as a locale where humankind is forced into a more “archaic and primitive” state. By extension, this creates the potential for introspection and reprioritization, for reconciliation with the core that lies beneath the fancy that induced “The Waste Land” in the first place. While not necessarily dead, those in “The Waste Land” “have [not] gone to a distant land but” are “dwelling in neighborhood,” separated enough from their reality to contemplate it but not too far gone to return (Basevi 1). In this sense, “The Waste Land” is almost a hopeful place. Perhaps, amidst rotting corpses, its residents will realize the frailty of April’s sweetness and, in their future resurrection, act with more fundamental respect for their basal nature.

Sloppy “do[ing] the Police in different voices,” effectively illustrates Eliot’s focus on harnessing cultural allusions to critique a war torn world (Dickens 9). The different voices are Eliot’s far reaching allusions, whether it be Arthurian legends, Greek mythology, or the closing Sanskrit. The word “police” is also particularly relevant as it creates an instant association with crime and disorder, as was present in the time, in readers’ minds.

One more subtle dynamic that emerges from the idea of Sloppy switching voices is that of active effort and dynamism. To choose a voice for a specific report and apply is a highly targeted undertaking. Especially in the context of Sloppy going through voices at a rather rapid pace, there is almost a sense of rushing through voices. If voices are representative of cultures, this action is loosely one of speeding through cultures.

A similar element of concentrated tension is present in Eliot’s “Heart of Darkness” epigraph. The narrator describes a sudden and shocking change coming over Kurtz’s face: “Anything approaching the change that came over his features I have never seen before, and hope never to see again” (Conrad 3). As this sudden change occurs, the epigraph depicts Kurtz as “liv[ing] his life in every detail of desire, temptation, and surrender during that supreme moment of complete knowledge” (Conrad 4). Although this moment of emotional intensity seems to be out of Kurtz’s control, as his life’s traumas and joys alike simultaneously flow through him, there is evidently an emotional overload: a rush of feeling that, in a more serious way, parallels Sloppy’s swift transitions between voices.

To contrast this opening with Eliot’s final one, the scientific concepts of effusion and diffusion are useful. Per the University of Central Florida, “diffusion occurs when gas molecules disperse throughout a container…effusion occurs when a gas passes through an opening that is smaller than the mean free path of the particles.” If the reader is a container exposed to Eliot’s work, Eliot’s initial opening is very much one of effusion. There is a concentrated overload as Sloppy’s voices and Kurtz’s emotions alike bombard the reader.

On the other hand, Eliot’s published title and epigraph embody literary “diffusion.” Relative to the tangible idea of Sloppy going through voices, “The Waste Land” is a far more abstract concept. As discussed in class, it is unclear even on a definitional level as it could mean anything from surplus land to brutally spoiled land, it could be a trench or house the homeless. The Sybil of Cumae’s being “suspended in a flask for eternity” further ties into the notion of diffusion (Petronius 2). To the point that she “want[s] to die,” the Sybil has been “dangling in a bottle,” literally observing and absorbing the oft-tragic continuity of human life around her (Petronius 4). Her life experience is far from an active one, but rich in saddening observations nevertheless.

In the overall context of “The Waste Land,” diffusion seems a more appropriate choice than effusion. Eliot doesn’t simply rotate through voices, reading reports. Rather, he forces the reader to “dangle” in the “bottle” of his poem and absorb endlessly arcane allusions to disparate cultures before, at some level, uniting them into understanding. Thus, the greater subtlety offered by Eliot’s final title and epigraph is most appropriate indeed.

Sloppy “do[ing] the Police in different voices,” effectively illustrates Eliot’s focus on harnessing cultural allusions to critique a war torn world (Dickens 9). The different voices are Eliot’s far reaching allusions, whether it be Arthurian legends, Greek mythology, or the closing Sanskrit. The word “police” is also particularly relevant as it creates an instant association with crime and disorder, as was present in the time, in readers’ minds. 
One more subtle dynamic that emerges from the idea of Sloppy switching voices is that of active effort and dynamism. To choose a voice for a specific report and apply is a highly targeted undertaking. Especially in the context of Sloppy going through voices at a rather rapid pace, there is almost a sense of rushing through voices. If voices are representative of cultures, this action is loosely one of speeding through cultures.
A similar element of concentrated tension is present in Eliot’s “Heart of Darkness” epigraph. The narrator describes a sudden and shocking change coming over Kurtz’s face: “Anything approaching the change that came over his features I have never seen before, and hope never to see again” (Conrad 3). As this sudden change occurs, the epigraph depicts Kurtz as “liv[ing] his life in every detail of desire, temptation, and surrender during that supreme moment of complete knowledge” (Conrad 4). Although this moment of emotional intensity seems to be out of Kurtz’s control, as his life’s traumas and joys alike simultaneously flow through him, there is evidently an emotional overload: a rush of feeling that, in a more serious way, parallels Sloppy’s swift transitions between voices.
To contrast this opening with Eliot’s final one, the scientific concepts of effusion and diffusion are useful. Per the University of Central Florida, “diffusion occurs when gas molecules disperse throughout a container…effusion occurs when a gas passes through an opening that is smaller than the mean free path of the particles.” If the reader is a container exposed to Eliot’s work, Eliot’s initial opening is very much one of effusion. There is a concentrated overload as Sloppy’s voices and Kurtz’s emotions alike bombard the reader.
On the other hand, Eliot’s published title and epigraph embody literary “diffusion.” Relative to the tangible idea of Sloppy going through voices, “The Waste Land” is a far more abstract concept. As discussed in class, it is unclear even on a definitional level as it could mean anything from surplus land to brutally spoiled land, it could be a trench or house the homeless. The Sybil of Cumae’s being “suspended in a flask for eternity” further ties into the notion of diffusion (Petronius 2). To the point that she “want[s] to die,” the Sybil has been “dangling in a bottle,” literally observing and absorbing the oft-tragic continuity of human life around her (Petronius 4). Her life experience is far from an active one, but rich in saddening observations nevertheless.
In the overall context of “The Waste Land,” diffusion seems a more appropriate choice than effusion. Eliot doesn’t simply rotate through voices, reading reports. Rather, he forces the reader to “dangle” in the “bottle” of his poem and absorb endlessly arcane allusions to disparate cultures before, at some level, uniting them into understanding. Thus, the greater subtlety offered by Eliot’s final title and epigraph is most appropriate indeed.

Eliot’s prefatory note emphasizes his appreciation for The Golden Bough; of particular note is the Bough’s specific reference to Attis, Osiris and vegetation ceremonies. In these specific allusions, fertility emerges as the underlying force of concern. It is very logical that The Waste Land is infertile. But, given Eliot’s general tendency towards reflection upon humanity’s condition, and indeed the modernist desire to inspire fundamental reflection, it is not unreasonable to think the three words of the title are deceptive in their simplicity, that the notion of infertility has more far ranging impacts in this case than simply inhibiting the growth of plants.

Seeking infertility’s deeper connotation, Frazer’s observation, taking “him” as a general representation of humanity, of “how intimately his life is bound up with the life of nature, and how the same processes which freeze the stream and strip the earth of vegetation menace him with extinction,” is revealing (2). Frazer suggests that the forces that take, and of course give, life are often common between inanimate objects, or “vegetable[s]” in Frazer’s words, and animate humans. Thus, there is a need for a certain humility and subservience to nature, a respect for the natural order. Ancient people pursued, intentionally or unintentionally, practiced such humility through magical ceremonies: “those who observed the ceremonies…believed that the tie between the animal and the vegetable world was even closer than it really is” (Frazer 6). Fundamentally, existence was centered around allowing the “principle of life,” simplified even to the extent of its presence in plants, to overcome the “principle of death.” A simple approach but one with limited room for perversion. In this sense, human reproduction and fertility were enshrined as core priorities and, without regard to sophistication, there was a certain continuity in life.

But, in line with the general tendency of humans towards self-centered amelioration–an understandable one given humanity’s remarkable technological advancements (which likely played quite heavily on Eliot’s mind given his experiences with the brutality of war machinery and life in a time of immense industrialization)–a move beyond simply focusing on mere survival was inevitable. Set’s plot to kill his brother Osiris as outlined by Frazer exemplifies this perfectly (17). Seeking an alluring yet superficial throne, Set conspired to kill his own brother. It is particularly symbolic that Osiris was the god of fertility; quite literally, humanity’s greed killed fertility. Additionally, it is interesting to note that Osiris’s religious significance pertained both to agricultural fertility and human reproduction, furthering the notion of natural bareness being tied to human continuity that seems quite pervasive in the works Eliot credits as most influential for his title.

Phallic imagery is also of particular importance. Attis, another god of fertility, “unmanned himself under a pine-tree, and bled to death on the spot”; so too did Attis’ priests “who regularly castrated themselves on entering the service of the goddess” (Frazer 11). Weston’s work also touches on the phallus as he writes, “in Russia the Vegetation or Year Spirit is known as Yarilo, and is represented by a doll with phallic attributes” (5). At the most literal level, there is an evident concern for human reproductivity. The tension between castration’s motivations, especially as a sacrifice rather than a forced deed, and its pragmatic implications is a complicating factor. If “sacrifice” ignores the fundamental biological imperative to reproduce and ensure fertility, is it noble?

The answer that Eliot, at least as determinable by analyzing the sources that he credits as inspirations embraces, particularly as applied to society’s leaders, is a resounding no. Weston references Ancient Greek dogma to propound that “the king who is maimed has a kingdom diseased like himself” and concludes that a core focus of the Grail Quest was “the restoration to health and vigour of a King suffering from infirmity” (6). In both cases, there is an implication that a impotent monarch–which a castrated monarch literally is–negatively impacts the health of a Kingdom. The notion of castration as sacrifice is similar to many other deeds that some individuals might deem “noble,” even such as the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, but are, if analyzed through the relatively simple lens of literal human continuity, quite negative. Nobility is a relatively frail construct while continuity of existence is the most fundamental thing there is.

So, if infertility is induced when the natural cycles of human continuity are disrupted by perverse actions–the human equivalent of perhaps a drought diminishing vegetable fertility–Eliot’s sources’ contrasting the ancient reverence for life with modern humanity’s disconnect with basic survival suggests that The Waste Land is fundamentally a product of human arrogance. Ungrounded humanity is in a state of existential desolation. But Eliot’s premise is not one of hopelessness. Frazer makes clear that fertility is inherently seasonal and cyclical. While humanity might have separated itself from this cycle to enter The Waste Land, perhaps it is Eliot’s hope, beyond distressing readers, that reconnection with humanity’s core natural state is possible; that, in The Waste Land’s subterranean reaches, there is hope for human continuity.