Tradition and The Waste Land

Tradition and The Waste Land

T. S. Eliot’s beliefs, as stated in "Tradition and the Individual Talent" led to the creation of a new poetic form in The Waste Land. The form is based on the work of other poets, as well as a reaction to the failed attempts of earlier writers to voice similar ideas. The Waste Land expresses the sentiments of post World War I life more successfully than other poems of the period because it alludes to and uses the best techniques of earlier works. This allows it to be much more compact than epic poems, yet it is as vivid in abstract imagery as Georgian and trench poetry. By combining the techniques and strengths of various genres such as the epic, the Georgian and romantic poetry in new ways, The Waste Land gives the reader a new experience which captures, in a new voice, what the other works could not—the feeling of disillusionment after the war. Eliot creates the new form by using literary allusions which actually make his footnotes part of the poem. The footnotes add substantial meaning through rich cultural, critical and imagistic connotations.

In "Tradition and the Individual" Eliot explains why it is important to include the canon of past works when writing poetry:

In English writing we seldom speak of tradition, though we occasionally apply its name in deploring its absence. We cannot refer to "the tradition" or to "a tradition"; at most, we employ the adjective in saying that the poetry of So-and-so is "traditional" or even "too traditional." Seldom, perhaps does the word appear except in a phrase of censure. If otherwise, it is vaguely approbative, with the implication, as to the work approved, of some pleasing archaeological reconstruction. You can hardly make the word agreeable to English ears without this comfortable reference to the reassuring science of archaeology.

Eliot goes on to state the importance of the cumulative effect of new literature. No poet, Eliot states, " . . . has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation, is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists" (Eliot, 2171) While the essay was written in 1919, it details the philosophy that any new work merely adds and alters, if ever so imperceptibly, the entire collection of literature that preceded it. While Eliot felt that a firm connection with the past is satisfying to readers, he recognized the need for a new genre to deal with the feelings of the post-war world. Simply reiterating or copying older works was not enough, instead, the modern poet of any age must utilize both the "tradition" of those who came before and "the individual talent" of those who would add distinctiveness to the modern work. While The Waste Land was published three years after "Tradition and the Individual Talent," it is the same philosophy that inspires both works. The Waste Land utilizes the sentiments of "Tradition" in that it is highly allusive, yet, simultaneously, it is a new kind of poem, which is clearly different from anything that came before.

Allusions not only require a reader to recognize the past in new ways that add meaning to the present, but it adds layers of connotations that could not be presented in any other manner, except perhaps the epic. The epic has not had the success with modern readers that it had with the ancient Greeks and Romans. With the exception of Ulysses, by James Joyce, and Paradise Lost, by John Milton, the epic in English is a contradiction in terms. While the scale of The Waste Land is epic, its voice is not. Other styles that had followings in both popular and critical circles were the free verse poems of Walt Whitman, the World War I trench poets, and the "neo-romantic" poetry of the Georgians.

The Georgian poets like John Masefield and Rupert Brooke may have had less favor late in the war than they had before the war, they did offer T. S. Eliot something to base his work against, and he did actually share some of their techniques. A typical Georgian poet, Rupert Brooke epitomizes the style in "1914":

If I should die, think only this of me:

That there’s some corner of a foreign field

That is for ever England. There shall be

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;

A dust who England bore, shaped, made aware,

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,

A body of England’s, breathing English air,

Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,

A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;

And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. (Brooke, 81)

The sonnet form as well as the abstraction of a pastoral code of honor typify the approach that Eliot was certain would not work for a poem about post-war disillusion. Yet, there is more of Rupert Brooke in The Waste Land than there appears to be on a first reading. An examination of the style of wartime vers librewill help to illustrate the similarities of Brooke to Eliot.

The trench poets, of which Siegfried Sassoon was one of the more successful, defined themselves far away from the Georgians, but while a poem by a trench poet like Sassoon may capture some of the essence of war experience, the experience itself is unique, and cannot be felt by the reader who is not also a trench warrior. The poetry falls back on abstract imagery to make its point. A certain amount of empathy is required for traditional forms and free verse to work when abstractions are involved; this is how the Georgians and the trench poets are similar when compared to Eliot. In Sassoon’s "A Working Party" the opening stanza is an example of an empathetic approach to poetry:

Three hours ago he blundered up the trench,

Sliding and poising, groping with his boots;

Sometimes he tripped and lurched against the walls

With hands that pawed the sodden bags of chalk.

He couldn’t see the man who walked in front;

Only he heard the drum and rattle of feet

Stepping along barred trench boards, often splashing 

Wretchedly where the sludge was ankle-deep.

To a fellow trench soldier, the image of walking through the mud during a work party would bring back memories and disturbing images of being in a working party, but the image loses something on the reader who has no conception of living in a trench. What Eliot does to make his work different, is that he uses allusions and images that are firmly grounded in our literature, so much so that there is a "societal memory" of the images. A societal memory is built upon the history, the literature and the experiences of a civilization and its culture—it becomes a part of the people’s collective memory. The dead clich�s and anecdotes of texts from the Bible to Alighieri’s Inferno afford not only an image in the reader’s mind, but they supply a feeling that has been expressed historically through numerous writers and critics. While poets like Sassoon tried to find new voices and poets like Brooke tried to perfect old voices, they were largely writing in the same manner as the poets who came before them, and they were not adding the individual talent that Eliot felt was important. The trench poets merely described more concrete events than the Georgians, but both relied on abstract feelings and empathy to convey their messages.

Eliot combined the power of imagery and abstraction through the use of allusions. The interpretations of classics have been examined and explored to such an extent that the educated reader has as clear of an understanding of them, much like a lawyer understands the obscure judicial language of a courtroom. Eliot demonstrates in The Waste Land that, by using references to works that have a substantial body of criticism, he does not need to explain exactly what it is that he means. Instead of describing an experience or a feeling, he draws on "the tradition" to supply both the image and the feeling which leaves him free to express himself by adding to the images. Eliot is able to say far more, and in a far more precise mode, than anything that has been done during the pre-war and wartime period. Eliot has produced a form that yields more information than a typical poem, yet it is still compact and poetic. The Waste Land has a scope and magnitude of interpretation that is rivaled in English, perhaps, only by Milton and Shakespeare. This is what places The Waste Land between the epics and the trench poets. Remarkable economy of words and true depth of meaning come together in one poem.

Milton, in the writing of Paradise Lost, intended the poem to resonate on many levels with his readers. In order to handle a poetic challenge as immense as God, he needed to extrapolate from the Bible and other texts in order to create his epic. The result was a twelve volume work that attempted to explain a few pages in the Bible. Eliot’s poetic challenge in The Waste Land was to produce a work of epic scope, yet maintain a manageable size. The epic, having fallen out of fashion even before Milton, was no longer a viable form, since other genres, such as the novel, took the place of poetic narrative. Eliot’s use of allusion achieves many of the goals of an epic without requiring a cumbersome investment by the reader. In Paradise Lost, Milton simply spells out most of his points in a didactic lesson rather than attempting an economic use of words. Milton’s sense of poetry came from the sounds and melodies of the words, not their compactness, and his own invocations state his intentions to "justify the ways of God to man." (ll. 25-6) An example of a verbose Miltonian explanation looks like this:

Say first, for heaven hides nothing from thy view

Nor the deep tract of hell, say first what cause

Moved our grand parents in that happy state, 

Favoured of heaven so highly, to fall off

From their creator, and transgress his will

For one restraint, lords of the world besides? (ll. 27-33)

Milton explains himself in laborious, yet elegant, language, but the result is clearly a wordy poem that is fairly easy to read, but very long. A close reading of the lines will result in a good understanding of Milton’s concepts, and there are few symbols, allegories or devices that are not easily identified. The words do not carry many connotations that are not far from the surface, and a whole idea may take several pages of blank verse to relate.

While there has been much debate and a variety of interpretations of Paradise Lost, the text is relatively straight-forward in its approach to communicate with the reader. The problem (to Eliot) of this form, is its length and its lack of focus. It is often said that the true hero of Paradise Lost is the reader who manages to complete it. Eliot’s verse is much more compact, and since it says much more with fewer words, it is a more successful poem, by modern standards.

The comparison of Paradise Lost and The Waste Land ends with the observation that Eliot was reacting to the epic form by rewriting it. The Waste Land is as much the "individual talent" altering the genre as it is a new genre of epic. While refreshingly different from Paradise Lost, The Waste Land owes much of its aims, objectives and reader’s patience to the epic form since it attempts the same things. Once the reader has figured out The Waste Land’s meanings, though, it is easy to remember because of its length. It is ironic that Milton took the classic form of Homer and the other ancients and "re-wrote" it to suit his purpose of creating a didactic religious poetry in English, since Eliot then "re-wrote" the Miltonian epic.

While Eliot has not made any direct references to Paradise Lost, it is by omission that it stands out. The Waste Land makes extensive use of Inferno by Dante Aligheri and of the longer works by Ovid, Shakespeare and the Bible, so it can be assumed that he was familiar with Paradise Lost. His omission of any reference to Milton poises a natural question of why it was omitted. Perhaps Eliot’s reaction against the imprecise and tedious language of Milton results in his ultra-compact form in The Waste Land, but also missing are references to Idylls of the King by Tennyson, which seems like a natural reference if one wishes to capture a public recognition of the allusions to King Arthur and the Round Table.

To Eliot, Tennyson is the antithesis of what an individual talent should be, and so he is ignored as a failed branch of talent, left to wither. Tennyson, rather than contributing anything new to the poetic tradition, has instead regressed. By making poetic statements in longer forms and by duplicating the sentiments of earlier poets, Tennyson would be an unlikley candidate for Eliot to refer to. However, Eliot has, in fact, by omission, reacted away from Tennyson in creatingThe Waste Land, and so Tennyson is present in the "tradition," even in his absence.

Eliot refers to Aligheri’s Inferno, in lines 60-63 of The Waste Land: "Unreal City, / Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, / A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many / I had not thought death had undone so many." The original line from Inferno is:

E io, che riguardi, vidi una ’nsegna 

che girando correve tanto ratta

che d’ogne posa mi parea indegna;

e dietro le ven�a s� lunga tratta

di gente, ch’i’ non averi credutto

che morte tanta n’avesse disfatta. (ll. 52-7)

Which translates to mean, "When I looked again, I saw a flag running in circles so rapidly that it seemed to scorn all pause; and after it there came so long a train of people, that I would not have believed death had undone so many." (Alighieri, 57) The line by Eliot refers to a single sestet by Alighieri, and the meaning of it has been the topic of criticism for hundreds of years. Not only has Eliot given the reader a clear image of people traversing a bridge but he also gives the connotations and a critical history of Inferno to enrich and enhance the image. The people on the bridge in The Waste Land now seem like ghosts descending into hell. Cowards, as Alighieri goes on to describe them, because they did not care to be good enough for God, but they displeased God’s enemies as well. The faces, some of which the narrator of Inferno recognizes, are of people who are being stung by wasps as punishment for their cowardice in a life they never truly lived. Eliot recalls, to the educated reader, the scene from Inferno, along with his own words to form a new combination. The "Unreal City" is now a rich image filled with undertones that connect it, not only with Inferno, but with other references in The Waste Land to London Bridge.

In line 427 of The Waste Land, London Bridge brings the poem full circle: "Fishing, with the arid plain behind me / Shall I at least set my lands in order? / London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down . . . " The thematic rhymes of The Waste Land also add not only to an image of "Yeats-ian" or Vorticist cycles, but they add again to the richness of the poem without resorting to clich�d techniques and forms like Tennyson. At yet another level in the poem, the faces of the dead are commuting, much like Walt Whitmans’s commuters in "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry" from Leaves of Grass:

Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes, how curious you are to me!

On the ferry-boats the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning home, are more curious to me than you suppose,

And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence are more to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose. (ll. 2-4)

Whitman, having the same habit as Milton of writing out long explanations and lists, would seem an unlikely choice for Eliot to include in his poems, but there is evidence which suggests that he was. Eliot wrote primarily in free verse, which in itself denotes Whitman, but the use of lilacs in the first stanza ofThe Waste Land suggests more: "April is the cruellest month, breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing . . ." The flower that most people of the early 1920s would have picked is the poppy, from John McCrae’s "In Flanders Fields." (McCrae, 85) The deforestation of land in World War I gave enough sunlight to germinate the seeds of poppies which otherwise would not have sprouted. The fact that poppies grew in quantity, feeding on the putrefaction of dead soldiers, was common knowledge, but if Eliot wanted an allusion to flowers, he had one in McCrae. Eliot chooses instead to use the lilac, which grows quickly, but not nearly as fast as the poppy. Lilacs did not grow in abundance on the former battlefields, but they were popularized by Walt Whitman after the death of Abraham Lincoln in "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d:"

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,

And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,

I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

Ever-returning spring, trinity sire to me you bring,

Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,

And thought of him I love. (ll. 1-6)

The imagery of the lilac symbolizes hope for the future. The cyclic nature of the lilac’s bloom each year gives the speaker peace, even in the face of heart-breaking anguish. Eliot deliberately recalls this sentiment and then alters it to become his own. He makes use of the allusion and the power it has, but for his own purposes. Whitman, like Milton, gives Eliot the basis to build a new form on, but also something to react against, so that the newness is appreciated as individual talent. Eliot uses the best techniques and the history of author’s previous contributions to improve and to create his own style of writing.

In only a few lines of The Waste Land, there are numerous allusions, some with footnotes, and some without footnotes, and their usefulness to the poem is extraordinary. The more a reader knows about the references, the more is revealed. In this manner, Eliot reaches a very wide audience by appealing not only to the academic, but to the occasional reader of poetry as well. For all of its allusions, The Waste Land is not as difficult to read and gain meaning out of as poems like Ezra Pound’s Cantos or James Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake, which seem to be obscure only for the sake of being obscure. Eliot is obscure enough to interest the academic, but open enough to entice the casual reader.

Eliot was not the only poet searching for a new style of poetry. The poets who wrote about the war before Eliot, as mentioned earlier, based their works on older techniques as well, and despite their attempt to find new expressions, ultimately, they relied on empathy and abstract feelings. Eliot, by contrast, found a new method of writing that would manifest his thoughts, but he was also aided by the writings of pre-war and early war poets. In comparing Eliot with poets like Sassoon, Charles Hamilton Sorley, or even Rupert Brooke, one can see a common technique that distinguishes the earlier poets from Eliot. In Charles Hamilton Sorley’s poem "When You See the Millions of the Mouthless Dead," the technique he uses is closer to Eliot’s than it appears. It does not draw heavily on specific images and recollections requiring empathy, but it is like Rupert Brooke in that it draws on abstract images to make its point. Eliot combines elements found in poems like Sorley’s to write The Waste Land, so some of the same themes are evident:

When you see millions of the mouthless dead 

Across your dreams in pale battalions go, 

Say not soft things as other men have said, 

That you'll remember. For you need not so. 

Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know 

It is not curses heaped on each gashed head? 

Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow. 

Nor honour. It is easy to be dead. 

Say only this, ‘They are dead.’ Then add thereto, 

‘Yet many a better one has died before.’ 

Then, scanning all the o’ercrowded mass, should you 

Perceive one face that you loved heretofore, 

It is a spook. None wears the face you knew. 

Great death has made all his for evermore. (Sorely, 89)

Mouthless implies that the dead cannot speak which implies a loss, and the passing of something, perhaps tradition, but the image is vague. Sorely emphasizes the inability to speak by making them both dead and mouthless, instead of "silent" or "mute" or "dumb." Eliot would recognize the image, but he would have tried to find a richer metaphor in the shape of an historical or literary reference. Sorely’s poem indicates that, " . . . you’ll remember. For you need not so." The use of the word remember juxtaposed with "need not so" implies that it is useless, in this new world, to remember the past, but the uselessness is not a sensation that every reader can understand or imagine in an abstract manner. It does indicate, however, a cyclic nature to events, but Sorley fails to communicate his point because shared experience is necessary to fully understand the poem. Eliot’s technique in The Waste Land overcomes this obstacle. However, he does borrow a sense of abstraction from the Georgians and even the trench poets to produce a new image that has more capacity for allusion.

Sadly, Sorley falls short in his imagery because it is too vague, and his poems are too short to develop the themes fully. Eliot bypasses the nebulous troubles of language and its misinterpretation by using citation where images and perceptions have been studied and understood for generations. Sorely has some brilliant moments of imagery, but the effect is short lived since it is so brief and easily forgotten. Eliot, however, uses imagery similar to Sorley’s but he adds literary allusion and thematic rhyme to broaden the effect on the poem and the reader. If one wishes to determine what Eliot meant in a particular reference, there is a vast critical body or works for reference. Sassoon, Brooke and Sorley all fall short when compared to Eliot, since they suffer from the pitfalls of an imprecise language and non-epic lengths. Milton falls short because of verbosity.

Perhaps the most important reference in The Waste Land is the powerful epigraph, which also introduces one of the major themes of the poem. In describing the Sibyl of Cumae, who had been granted eternal life without eternal youth, Eliot recalls in the mind of the reader an entire mythic legend to ponder and bear in mind while reading the poem. The Sibyl is a metaphor for society, who, through foolishness and pride fall into a situation without resolution. The na�vet� of the people in pre-war Britain, the lack of foresight, and many other implications are summarized by this simple reference.

Eliot’s vision of the world in The Waste Land is one where no future is known except that it will be known. Like the Sybil, death is not a solution, and regeneration is only an unknown possibility, so the lament of the Sibyl becomes the lament of a civilization whose very structure has been fundamentally changed. The change, comes not only from war, but by an outdated class structure and adherence to old ways. While the Sibyl wishes only to die because of a grave moment of stupidity and pride, the modern world, having made the decision to wage war, does not have the option to simply quit, nor does it have the ability to return to where it was before. So a cyclic and natural series of events is impending. All of these sentiments are based on the simple two-line epigraph.

"The Fire Sermon" of line 173 of The Waste Land adds even more to the sense that the future is unknown by depicting a confused mass of conflicting images centering on Tiresias, the old man, and the typist who engage in an odd, yet non-intimate foreplay as he watches in voyeuristic fashion. Tiresias, who had "suffered all" by experiencing life and sex as both a man and a woman is helpless in his situation—he cannot see his fate—let alone alter it. The image of Tiresias creates discomfort in the reader since the situation is a bizarre mix of prostitution, nihilism, voyeurism and trans-sexuality. By simply referring to Tiresias, and placing him with a typist and pock-marked man, Eliot brings a wealth of perception to a few words.

Eliot did not limit his attention of past artistic tradition to poetry. Many of the methods of analyzing and appreciating art are the same as they are for poetry. Furthermore, many of the same objectives can be attained by both media. The Woodcut Combat by William Roberts, illustrates, visually, the uneasy sensation that Eliot creates in The Waste Land, even though it, too, fails to offer a lasting message. Still, it is apparent that Roberts shared similar visions of the post-war world with Eliot, and it would be na�ve to assume that Eliot had not seen Blast, which his friend and fellow poet Ezra Pound, wrote for. No doubt, the art ofBlast helped Eliot to focus his writing style in The Waste Land.

Many of the lines and shapes in Combat (see addendum) are placed nearly, but not quite, in symmetrical positions. This helps to confuse the eye and cause further inspection of the figure. Some of the oddly shaped figures in Combat represent human bodies.

Furthermore, the unnatural positioning of many of the lines is much more like that of corpses than of living soldiers. Combat is replete with images of death and dying, much like Sorley’s "mouthless dead," the sight of separated body parts causes one of the strongest emotional responses in humans. The instinct of self-preservation demands that it disturbs us. Combat mixes disturbing and confusing images which allows for an association that creates instability and uneasiness.

Like The Waste Land, which reveals itself in more detail as more and more of the details of the footnotes are uncovered, the more the observer discovers about the lines in Combat, the more they reveal through a progression of "if/then" logic. If one figure shows legs, then the rest of the figure is a person, if that figure is a person, then other details show his innards, and so on. If there is a theme of water and a lack of regeneration in The Waste Land, then later references to water must be viewed in the same light and the metaphor extended. The images of water should not be viewed as separate metaphors. Eliot creates a sensation of uneasiness in The Waste Land, not by stimulus of the fear reaction, but by cognitive dissonance and confusion—much like the visual uneasiness in Combat.

The Waste Land uses scraps of techniques seen in many other forms of literature and art, and while it could be easy to deny Eliot the status of true genius for his "theft" of so many ideas, it is he who had the wisdom to put it all together. The impact of The Waste Land on modern poetry has been the topic of many academic papers, and it is generally accepted that it has made the single largest difference on how 20^th century poetry was written. The source of Eliot’s genius lies in his recognition that modern writers stand on the shoulders of the writers who came before them. By bringing together seemingly unrelated techniques from earlier poets and artists, Eliot found a new way to express a new sensation which had escaped other poets of his age and even beyond. WhileThe Waste Land may not seem to be an entirely original work, it is the bridge that allowed poetry to cross from the 19^th century into the 20^th. Since The Waste Land, there has not been another poem that has had such a profound effect on the poetic world, nor have there been any substantial changes in form. The Waste Land marks the change of poetry from the past to the present. uses scraps of techniques seen in many other forms of literature and art, and while it could be easy to deny Eliot the status of true genius for his "theft" of so many ideas, it is he who had the wisdom to put it all together. The impact of The Waste Land on modern poetry has been the topic of many academic papers, and it is generally accepted that it has made the single largest difference on how 20^th century poetry was written. The source of Eliot’s genius lies in his recognition that modern writers stand on the shoulders of the writers who came before them. By bringing together seemingly unrelated techniques from earlier poets and artists, Eliot found a new way to express a new sensation which had escaped other poets of his age and even beyond. While The Waste Land may not seem to be an entirely original work, it is the bridge that allowed poetry to cross from the 19^thcentury into the 20^th. Since The Waste Land, there has not been another poem that has had such a profound effect on the poetic world, nor have there been any substantial changes in form. The Waste Land marks the change of poetry from the past to the present. uses scraps of techniques seen in many other forms of literature and art, and while it could be easy to deny Eliot the status of true genius for his "theft" of so many ideas, it is he who had the wisdom to put it all together. The impact of The Waste Land on modern poetry has been the topic of many academic papers, and it is generally accepted that it has made the single largest difference on how 20^th century poetry was written. The source of Eliot’s genius lies in his recognition that modern writers stand on the shoulders of the writers who came before them. By bringing together seemingly unrelated techniques from earlier poets and artists, Eliot found a new way to express a new sensation which had escaped other poets of his age and even beyond. While The Waste Land may not seem to be an entirely original work, it is the bridge that allowed poetry to cross from the 19^th century into the 20^th. Since The Waste Land, there has not been another poem that has had such a profound effect on the poetic world, nor have there been any substantial changes in form. The Waste Land marks the change of poetry from the past to the present.

On The Composition of The Waste Land

---

Richard Ellman

Pound's criticism of The Waste Land was not of its meaning; he liked its despair and was indulgent of its neo-Christian hope. He dealt instead with its stylistic adequacy and freshness. For example, there was an extended, unsuccessful imitation of The Rape of the Lock at the beginning of "The Fire Sermon." It described the lady Fresca (imported to the waste land from "Gerontion" and one day to be exported to the States for the soft drink trade). Instead of making her toilet like Pope's Belinda, Fresca is going to it, like Joyce's Bloom. Pound warned Eliot that since Pope had done the couplets better, and Joyce the defacation, there was no point in another round. To this shrewd advice we are indebted for the disappearance of such lines as:

The white-armed Fresca blinks, and yawns, and gapes,

Aroused from dreams of love and pleasant rapes.

Electric summons of the busy bell

Brings brisk Amanda to destroy the spell

Leaving the bubbling beverage to cool,

Fresca slips softly to the needful stool,

Where the pathetic tale of Richardson

Eases her labour till the deed is done . . .

This ended, to the steaming bath she moves,

Her tresses fanned by little flutt’ring Loves;

Odours, confected by the cunning French,

Disguise the good old hearty female stench.

The episode of the typist was originally much longer and more laborious:

A bright kimono wraps her as she sprawls

In nerveless torpor on the window seat;

A touch of art is given by the false

Japanese print, purchased in Oxford Street.

Pound found the décor difficult to believe: "Not in that lodging house?" The stanza was removed. When he read the later stanza,

--Bestows one final patronising kiss,

And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit;

And at the corner where the stable is,

Delays only to urinate, and spit,

he warned that the last two lines were "probably over the mark," and Eliot acquiesced by cancelling them.

Pound persuaded Eliot also to omit a number of poems that were for a time intended to be placed between the poem's sections, then at the end of it. One was a renewed thrust at poor Bleistein, drowned now but still haplessly Jewish and luxurious under water:

Full fathom five your Bleistein lies

Under the flatfish and the squids.

Graves' Disease in a dead jew's/man's eyes!

Where the crabs have eat the lids . . .

That is lace that was his nose

Roll him gently side to side,

See the lips unfold unfold

From the teeth, gold in gold....

Pound urged that this, and several other mortuary poems, did not add anything, either to The Waste Land or to Eliot's previous work. He had already written "the longest poem in the English langwidge. Don't try to bust all records by prolonging it three pages further." As a result of this resmithying by il miglior fabbro, the poem gained immensely in concentration. Yet Eliot, feeling too solemnized by it, thought of prefixing some humorous doggerel by Pound about its composition. Later, in a more resolute effort to escape the limits set by The Waste Land, he wrote Fragment of an Agon, and eventually, "somewhere the other side of despair," turned to drama.

From "The First Waste Land." In Eliot in His Time: Essays on the Occasion of the Fiftieth Anniversary of The Waste Land." Princeton, Princeton UP, 1973.

---

Hugh Kenner

So it would have been about mid-January 1922, in London, that The Waste Land received its final form, and likely its title too . The state of the manuscripts Eliot had unpacked after his return from the continent may be readily summarized. "The Burial of the Dead" had lost its Cambridge opening but was otherwise lightly annotated. "A Game of Chess" had had its opening heavily worked over by Pound, to tighten the meter, and Vivien Eliot had supplied a few suggestions for improving the pub dialogue. "The Fire Sermon" was a shambles; it needed much work. "Death by Water" had been cut back to ten lines. "What the Thunder Said" was "OK."

Pondering these materials, Eliot perceived where the poem's center of gravity now lay. Its center was no longer the urban panorama refracted through Augustan styles. That had gone with the dismemberment of Part III. Its center had become the urban apocalypse, the great City dissolved into a desert where voices sang from exhausted wells, and the Journey that had been implicit from the moment he opened the poem in Cambridge and made its course swing via Munich to London had become journev through the Waste Land. Reworking Part III, and retyping the other parts with revisions of detail, he achieved the visionary unity that has fascinated two generations of readers. He then went to bed with the flu, "excessively depressed." (Pound Letters, appendix to No. 181.)

He was anxious. He thought of deleting Phlebas, and was told that the poem needed Phlebas "ABsolootly." "The card pack introduces him, the drowned phoen. sailor." He thought of using "Gerontion" as a prelude, and was told not to. "One don't miss it at all as the thing now stands." (Pound Letters, No. 182.) What seems to have bothered him was the loss of a schema. "Gerontion" would have made up for that lack by turning the whole thing into "thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season." Later the long note about Tiresias attempted the same strategy: "What Tiresias sees, in fact, is the substance of the poem." The lost schema, if we have guessed about it correctly, had originated in a preoccupation with Dryden as the poem grew outward from "The Fire Sermon." If Vergil had once sponsored the protagonist's journey as Homer sponsors the wanderings of Leopold Bloom, Vergil was pertinent to a poem prompted by Vergil's major English translator, John Dryden. Ovid, who supplied Tiresias and Philomel, and told the story of the Sibyl’s terribly longevity which may underlie the line about fear in a handful of dust, was a favorite of Dryden's, and (on Mark Van Doren's showing) pertinent to Dryden's London and Eliot's. Wren's churches, notably Magnus martyr, were built after the fire Annus Mirabilis celebrates, which is one reason Eliot works Magnus Martyr into his Fire Sermon. And in disposing ornate diction across the grid of a very tame pentameter, Eliot's original draft of the opening of Part II had rewritten in the manner of French decadence a Shakespearean passage (" . . . like a burnished throne") that Dryden had rewritten before him in a diction schooled by his own time's French decorum. No classroom exercise is more ritualized than the comparison of Antony and Cleopatra and All for Love.

But the center from which such details radiate had been removed from the poem. What survived was a form with no form, and a genre with no name. Years later, on the principle that a form is anything done twice, Eliot reproduced the structural contours of The Waste Land exactly, though more briefly, in Burnt Norton, and later still three more times, to make the Quartets, the title of which points to a decision that such a form might have analogies with music. That was post facto. In 1922, deciding somewhat reluctantly that the poem called The Waste Land was finished, he was assenting to a critical judgment, Pound's and his own, concerning which parts were alive in a sheaf of pages he had written. Two years afterward, in "The Function of Criticism," he averted to "the capital importance of criticism in the work of creation itself," and suggested that "the larger part of the labour of an author in composing his work is critical labour; the labour of sifting, combining, constructing, expunging, correcting, testing." He called it "this frightful toil," and distinguished it from obedience to the Inner Voice. "The critical activity finds its highest, its true fulfilment in a kind of union with creation in the labour of the artist." (Selected Essays, "The Function of Criticism," IV.)

For it does no discredit to The Waste Land to learn that it was not striving from the first to become the poem it became: that it was not conceived as we have it before it was written, but reconceived from the wreckage of a different conception. Eliot saw its possibilities in London, in January 1922, with the mangled drafts before him: that was a great feat of creative insight.

In Paris he and Pound had worked on the poem page by page, piecemeal, not trying to salvage a structure but to reclaim the authentic lines and passages from the contrived. Contrivance had been guided by various neoclassic formalities, which tended to dispose the verse in single lines whose sense could survive the deletion of their neighbors.

When they had finished, and Eliot had rewritten the central section, the poem ran, in Pound's words, "from 'April . . .' to 'shantih' without a break." This is true if your criterion for absence of breaks is Symbolist, not neoclassical. Working over the text as they did, shaking out ashes from amid the glowing coals, leaving the luminous bits to discover their own unexpected affinities, they nearly recapitulated the history of Symbolism, a poetic that systematized the mutual affinities of details neoclassic canons had guided.

From "The Urban Apocalypse" in Eliot in His Time: Essays on the Occasion of the Fiftieth Anniversary of The Waste Land." Princeton, Princeton UP, 1973.

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Lyndall Gordon

During the final stages of The Waste Land's composition Eliot put himself, for what was to be the last time, under Pound's direction. On 18 November, on his way to Switzerland, Eliot passed through Paris and left his wife with the Pounds who were then living there. It seems likely that Eliot showed Pound what he had done in Margate. Pound called Eliot's Lausanne draft 'the 19 page version' which implies that he had previously seen another. He marked certain sheets on two occasions: once in pencil, probably on 18 November, once in ink, on Eliot's return from Lausanne early in January. Pound undoubtedly improved particular passages: his excisions of the anti-Semitic portrait of Bleistein and the misogynist portrait of Fresca curtailed Eliot's excessive animus, and his feel for the right word improved odd lines throughout. Pound was proud of his hand in The Waste Land and wrote:

If you must needs enquire

Know diligent Reader

That on each Occasion

Ezra performed the caesarian Operation.

I think that Pound's influence went deeper than his comment during the winter of 1921-2, going back rather to 1918, 1919, and 1920 when he and Eliot were engaged in a common effort to improve their poetry. Pound'sHugh Selwyn Mauberly (1920) is a covert dialogue with Eliot, a composite biography of two great unappreciated poets whose flaws are frankly aired. Pound criticizes a Prufrock-like poet too given to hesitation, drifting, 'maudlin confession', and aerial fantasy--the phantasmal seasurge and the precipitation of 'insubstantial manna' from heaven. As though in answer, Eliot put aside his most confessional fragments, 'Saint Narcissus' and 'Elegy', and in 192l overlaid private meditation with documentary sketches of contemporary characters--a pampered literary woman, Fresca (like Pound's Lady Valentine), Venus Anadyomene (another Mauberly character), Cockneys, a typist with dirty camisoles, and a scurfy clerk. The Pound colouring in these sketches did not quite suit Eliot. Where Pound is exuberant in his disgust, Eliot becomes callow or vitriolic--and Pound himself recognized this in his comments on typist and clerk: 'too easy' and 'probably over the mark'. Eliot's characters are not as realistic as Pound's. They are projections of Eliot's haunted consciousness--they could be termed humours. Unlike the satirist, Eliot does not criticize an actual world but creates a unique 'phantasmal' world of lust, cowardice, boredom, and malice on which he gazes in fascinated horror. The Waste Land is about a psychological hell in which someone is quite alone, 'the other figures in it / Merely projections'.

From Eliot’s Early Years. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1977.

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Marjorie Perloff

It is against this background that we must reconsider the Eliot-Pound collaboration on The Waste Land. For despite all the stylistic changes that Pound brought about in Eliot's long poem, changes that have recently been submitted to careful study--the thematic strains of the original Waste Land are not significantly altered in the final version. Indeed, one might argue that Pound's excisions and revisions made Eliot's central themes and symbols more prominent than they would otherwise have been, buried as they were under the weight of such satirical intrusions as "He Do the Police in Different Voices" (Part 1) or the Popean couplets about Fresca at her toilet at the beginning of Part II 1.37

Consider what happens to "Death by Water," which Pound reduced from ninety-two lines to ten. The first section, written in quatrains rhyming abab, introduces a parodic version of Ulysses in the person of a foolish sailor on shore leave, regaling his cronies in the public bars, who are "Staggering, or limping with a comic gonorrhea," with stories of the "much seen and much endured." In the margin of the manuscript, Pound wrote, "Bad--but cant attack until I get typescript." The second section, written in rather slack Tennysonian blank verse, is the dramatic monologue of the sailor, telling of a fishing expedition from the Dry Salvages north to the Outer Banks of Nova Scotia. Even as the sailor meditates on the significance of a mysterious Sirens' song heard one night on watch (lines 65-72), a song that makes him question the relationship of reality to dream, the ship hits an iceberg and is destroyed. After this ending ("And if Another knows, I know I know not, / Who only knows that there is no more noise now"--) comes the "Phlebas the Phoenician" lyric, which is the only part of the original that remains in the finished poem.

Pound seems to have decided that the long account of the sailor's voyage was an unnecessary digression. But when Eliot wrote from London, "Perhaps better omit Phlebas also???" Pound replied, "I DO advise keeping Phlebas. In fact I more'n advise. Phlebas is an integral part of the poem; the card pack introduces him, the drowned phoen. sailor. And he is needed ABSOLOOTLY where he is. Must stay in." Pound understood, in other words, that "Death by Water" is the essential link between the Madame Sosostris passage and the following lines near the end of Part V:

Damyata: The boat responded

Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar

The sea was calm, your heart would have responded

Gaily, when invited, beating obedient

To controlling hands

                                    I sat upon the shore 

Fishing, with the arid plain behind me 

Shall I at least set my lands in order?

Phlebas' "death by water" is the necessary prelude to the hints of rebirth contained in these lines, whereas the actual sea voyage, as described in the cancelled narrative portion, is irrelevant to the poem's life-in-death theme. Curiously, then, Pound seems to have understood Eliot's purpose better than did Eliot himself.

In discussing Pound's "operation upon The Waste Land," Eliot notes:

I have sometimes tried to perform the same sort of maieutic task; and I know that one of the temptations against which I have to be on guard, is trying to re-write somebody's poem in the way I should have written it myself if I had wanted to write that poem. Pound never did that: he tried first to understand what one was attempting to do, and then tried to help one do it in one's own way.

This is an important distinction. Pound did not try to transform The Waste Land into the sort of city poem he himself might have written. Rather, he helped Eliot to write it in his own way. "What the Thunder Said," for example, is left virtually untouched by Pound, for here Eliot discovered his quest theme and brought it to a swift and dramatic conclusion.

In assessing Pound's response to The Waste Land, critics invariably cite the famous letter to Eliot (24 December 1921) in which Pound says: "Complimenti, you bitch. I am wracked by the seven jealousies, and cogitating an excuse for always exuding my deformative secretions in my own stuff, and never getting an outline. I go into nacre and objets d'art." But the fact is that, despite these self-depreciating words, Pound knew well enough thatThe Waste Land, like "Gerontion," was not his sort of poem. As Eliot himself observes, after thanking Pound for "helping one to do it in one's own way," "There did come a point, of course, at which difference of outlook and belief became too wide."

From The Poetics of Indeterminacy: Rimbaud to Cage. Princeton, Princeton UP, 1981.

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Louis L. Martz

And yet it was evident, even in 1936, that 'Burnt Norton' was adapting the five-part structure of The Waste Land, for that structure was signalled by the use of a short lyric as part IV of the sequence. But what did it mean, what does it mean, to feel the five-part structure of The Waste Land working within so different a poem? To answer this question it may help to review the process by which The Waste Land gained its peculiar structure, emerging from the hands of Ezra Pound, as Eliot says, reduced to half manuscript length.

First of all, without Pound's editorial intervention, we would not have the short lyric, 'Phlebas the Phoenician', appearing by itself as part IV of The Waste Land, and thus, presumably, we would not have the short lyrics constituting the fourth sections of all the Four Quartets -- the short movement that helps to create analogies with Beethoven's late quartets. Indeed we might not have the Phlebas lyric at all, without Pound's advice, for Eliot, upset by Pound's slashing away at the eighty-two lines preceding this lyric in the manuscript, wrote to Pound, 'Perhaps better omit Phlebas also???' Pound was horrified: Eliot seemed not to understand the central principle of the poem's operation. 'I DO advise keeping Phlebas,' Pound replied. 'In fact I more'n advise. Phlebas is an integral part of the poem; the card pack introduces him, the drowned phoen. sailor, and he is needed ABSoloootly where he is. Must stay in.'

What Pound describes in that vehement answer is the sort of organization that Eliot later called musical, in his lecture 'The Music of Poetry', delivered in 1942, just as he was completing Four Quartets: 'The use of recurrent themes is as natural to poetry as to music,' Eliot says:

There are possibilities for verse which bear some analogy to the development of a theme by different groups of instruments ['different voices', we might say]; there are possibilities of transitions in a poem comparable to the different movements of a symphony or a quartet; there are possibilities of contrapuntal arrangement of subject-matter.

So, in The Waste Land, after the embers of lust have smouldered in 'The Fire Sermon' -- 'Burning burning burning burning'-- the death of Phlebas by water provides a moment of serenity, quiet, poise, as Phlebas enters the whirlpool in whispers to a death not to be feared, but foreseen and accepted. The lyric acts as the lines about the still point act in the two poems of 'Coriolan', where, first, amid the turmoil of the crowd at the parade, the people think they find their answer in the military leader: 'O hidden under the dove's wing, hidden in the turtle's breast, / Under the palmtree at noon, under the running water / At the still point of the turning world. O hidden.' But then, ironically, it appears in the second poem that the difficulties of a statesman have led him also to seek the still point: 'O hidden under the ... Hidden under the ... Where the dove's foot rested and locked for a moment, / A still moment, repose of noon.' The lyric of Phlebas acts as such a moment of repose, a nodal moment, tying together the strands of the poem, as Pound explained. And the fourth part, the short lyric, in all theFour Quartets, performs a similar function of poise and knotting, as the poem finds a temporary rest where themes and images and voices merge for a moment.

One voice of great importance speaks at the close of the Phlebas lyric, which is not simply a translation from Eliot's poem in French, Dans le Restaurant, for the closing lines are quite different. The French poem ends in an offhand, conversational tone: 'Figurez-vous donc, c’était un sort pénible; / Cependant, ce fut jadis un bel homme, de haut taille.' (Imagine then, it was a distressing fate; / Nevertheless, he was once a handsome man, of tall stature). In The Waste Land Eliot has changed the tone from conversational to prophetic by evoking the voice of St Paul addressing 'both Jew and Gentile' in his epistle to the Romans (ch. 2, 3): 'Gentile or Jew / O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, / Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.'

A similar effect is created by Pound's critical slashing away of all those weak and in part offensive Popeian couplets at the outset of part III of The Waste Land manuscript. 'Do something different,' Pound advised. So Eliot did: he pencilled on the back of the manuscript page a draft of the new opening passage, 'The river's tent is broken . . .' -- lines that stress the eternal presence of the river within the waste land, culminating in the line that echoes the voice of the psalmist in exile: 'By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept', with its attendant question, 'How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?' (Psalm 137:4).

A similar concentration upon the emergence of the prophetic voice is created by the removal of the monologue that opens The Waste Land manuscript, the monologue of the rowdy Irishman telling of a night on the town in Boston. This was excised by Eliot himself, perhaps under Pound's influence, perhaps because Eliot himself saw that the rowdy vitality of those singing, drinking men who stage a footrace in the dawn's early light does not accord with the voice that follows, the voice of one who is so reluctant to live that April becomes the cruelest month. That excision brings us quickly to the voice of a modern Ezekiel, speaking the famous lines:

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow 

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images.

Then these lines of true prophecy play their contrapuntal music against the voice of the false prophet, Madame Sosostris.

But I need to explain what I mean by the prophetic voice. With William Blake, we should discard the notion that the prophet's main function is to foretell the future. If, like Blake, we think of the biblical prophets, we will recall at once that they spend a great deal of time in denouncing the evils of the present, evils that derive from the people's worship of false gods and the pursuit of wealth and worldly pleasures. Prophecies of the future appear, but these are often prophecies of the disasters that will fall upon the people if they do not mend their evil ways. Denunciation of present evil is the primary message of the Hebrew prophet: he is a reformer, his mind is upon the present. But then he also offers the consolation of future good, if the people return to worship of the truth. Thus the voice of the prophet tends to oscillate between denunciation and consolation: he relates visions of evil and good, mingling within the immense range of his voice the most virulent excoriation and the most exalted lyrics. This, I think, is exactly the sort of oscillation that we find in Pound's Cantos and The Waste Land.

From "Origins of Form in Four Quartets." In Words in Time: New Essays on Eliot’s Four Quartets. Ed. Edward Lobb. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1993.

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Wayne Koestenbaum

Eliot admitted that he "placed before [Pound] in Paris the manuscript of a scrawling, chaotic poem"; in his hesitation to claim those discontinuities as signs of power, he resembles Prufrock—unerect, indecisive, unable to come to the point. Pound treats the manuscript of The Waste Land as if it were an effeminate Prufrock he wishes to rouse: he cures the poem of its hysteria by suggesting that representations of the feminine be cut, and by urging Eliot to make his language less qualified. Pound, who wrote to Eliot, "May your erection never grow less," approved of neither the poem’s nor the man’s sexual neurasthenia. Within a sequence of opposites, pairs that glide into each other and, in my hands, often blur (straight / gay, man / woman, active / passive, willful / indecisive), Pound urges his friend to inhabit the primary term; however, by metaphorically impregnating Eliot, Pound places him in a passive position that they must have considered unmanly. Pound’s gestures are paradoxical, he denounces instances of linguistic effeminacy, and yet the very act of intruding commentary is homosexually charged. In the "erection" letter to Eliot, Pound writes, "I merely queeried the dialect of ‘thence’, dare say it is o.k." The act of queerying—critiquing, editing, collaborating—has suspicious overtones of queerness, inferences which Pound highlights and denies. In discussing Pound’s ambiguous "queeries," I will put aside questions of literary quality. Focusing only on whether or not Pound’s suggestions were justified blinds us to other motives for his excisions. I would like to offer a different reading of Pound’s Caesarian performance.

Because Pound sought to establish Eliot’s primacy in literary history with The Waste Land, he disapproved of beginning the poem with an epigraph from Joseph Conrad, a living writer. In the "obstetric" letter, Pound wrote to Eliot. "I doubt if Conrad is weighty enough to stand the citation." I suspect that Pound objected not merely to Conrad’s lack of eminence, but to the epigraph’s content: a passage from Heart of Darkness ("The horror! the horror!"), it records a man crying out in fear of the dark (and feminine) continent. Beginning the poem with a cry of emasculated terror would not help keep Eliot erect. However, in this letter to Eliot, Pound criticizes another portion of the poem by echoing the very language of horror he disliked in the epigraph. "It also, to your horror probably, reads aloud very well. Mouthing out his OOOOOOze." Pound uses words that reflect The Waste Land’s fear of things that gape: he mentions "the body of the poem," and describes his Sage Homme verses as a "bloody impertinence" which should be placed "somewhere where they would be decently hidden and swamped by the bulk of accompanying matter." Pound describes the poem’s body in a language of mouths, horror, blood, and swamps—a vocabulary calculated to affect Eliot, who thought of his verse as a woman’s "purulent offensive discharge."

Pound separated The Waste Land from dread female discharge by criticizing Eliot’s portraits of women. Pound questioned the lines—"’You gave me hyacinths first a year ago, / ’They called me the hyacinth girl’"—with the marginal annotation, "Marianne," which, according to critic Barbara Everett, refers to the heroine of the Pierre Marivaux novel La Vie de Marianne, a work whose "Frenchness" attracted Eliot. Did Pound object to these lines because "hyacinth" signified homosexuality, and because Eliot—impersonating a hyacinth girl—was indulging in French tendencies? (Pound remembers the note as a possible reference to Tennyson’s Mariana; perhaps he disapproved of Eliot’s identification with this pining hysteric, an emblem of the kind of Victorian poetry that modernists condemned as effete. ) Pound tersely indicts these lines as mere "photography":

"My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.

"Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.

"What are you thinking of? What thinking? Think What?

"I never know what you are thinking. Think." (11)

Pound wrote "photo" beside the line, "Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?" (13). Pound faulted these passages for their photographic style—cheaply realistic, insufficiently wrought by artistic muscle—and for their subject: these snapshots portray Eliot as neurasthenic, silent, unable to satisfy his wife, and portray Vivien as hysterically adamant. Nothing fills the husband’s head: he is the gaping "horror" of the cancelled epigraph. Vivien, the camera’s subject, commented that these lines were "WONDERFUL," and added a further photographic line which Eliot kept "What you get married for if you dont want to have children" (15). Lil may refuse to have children, but the "nothing" husband was guilty of a truly hysterical reluctance—the refusal to speak.

The portrait of a lady that Pound most wholeheartedly blotted out was a swathe of Pope-like couplets concerning Fresca. In the typescript, Pound dismissed the whole passage with the comment, "rhyme drags it out to diffuseness" (39), but only crossed out the four lines which portrayed her as poet:

From such chaotic misch-masch potpourri

What are we to expect but poetry?

When restless nights distract her brain from sleep

She may as well write poetry, as count sheep. (41)

Eliot had described his poem as "chaotic"; Pound called it a "masterpiece." Pound, as male collaborator and editor, divides Eliot’s discourse from Fresca’s, and ensures that readers do not confuse the chaotic Waste Landwith Fresca’s chaotic potpourri, Eliot’s masterpiece with Fresca’s hysteric fits, Eliot’s Uranian muse with Fresca’s forays into gay and lesbian writers: "Fresca was baptised in a soapy sea / Of Symonds—Walter Pater—Vernon Lee" (41). Pound’s revisions intend to save Eliot from seeming like soapy Symonds. By crossing out Fresca, Pound suggests that Eliot begin "The Fire Sermon" with the narrator, an "I," "Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck / And on the king my father’s death before him." Pound lets this depiction of a dead king and wrecked brother remain: male royalty, even when dismembered, seemed preferable to a woman reading lesbian literature in the bathtub.

Pound particularly objected to syntactic inversion—which suggests, in turn, sexual inversion. The word "inversion" mattered to Pound. He wrote, in a letter to Eliot, "I should leave it as it is, and NOT invert," and commented in the manuscript, "Inversions not warranted by any real exigence of metre" (45). For Pound, inverted word order, a dated poetic affectation, implied the aesthete’s "nacre" and "objets d’art." Pound wrote "1880" and "Why this Blot on Scutchen between 1922 & Lil" beside

And if it rains, the closed carriage at four.

And we shall play a game of chess:

The ivory men make company between us

Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door. (13)

These lines clashed with the nearby jazzy "O O O O that ShakespeherIan Rag" and "HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME." But Pound disliked the passage for reasons other than its dated tonality; he found fault with the scene of sexual inaction between husband and wife, and accused Eliot of a sexual and stylistic listlessness. Modernism defined itself in opposition to that "1880" of literary and sexual ennui.

[. . . .]

As hysterical discourse, The Waste Land remains as passive as Coleridge’s wedding-guest: the poem invites a reader to master it. Uniwilling to explain itself, requiring a reader-as-collaborator ("mon semblable, --mon frère!") to unravel its disguises, it remains passive toward a "frère" whose attentions it solicits by this technique of direct presentation without transitions. Modernist ideograms refuse to soften the image’s blow with commentary, and place the reader in the active though reluctant role of elucidator. Between two men, passivity and activity have sexual valences that the poem bodies forth in its thematics of violation, and the hysterical discontinuities, aphasias, and amnesias that follow from the repressed moment of surrender. Eliot’s abulia creates antitheses of itself in the "flushed and decided" young man carbuncular, or the sailor (in excised portions from "Death by Water") who aims his "concentrated will against the tempest and the tide" (63). Despite these representations of sexual will, the poem’s heart is in its passivity toward interpretation, the moments of collage, potpourri, and fragmentation which place enormous faith in the reader as analyst. In this sense, Eliot’s manuscript reads like the premonition of Pound’s arrival: the text implies a second man who might interpret its absences. Eliot’s dismissal of his work as merely chaotic, and his passivity toward revision, correspond to the poem’s own willingness to stay broken. Eliot could "connect nothing with nothing"; it remained for Pound to redefine disjunction, to convert female hysteria, through male collaboration, back into a powerful discourse. Indeed, Pound’s revisions changed The Waste Land from a series of poems into a unity which he trumpeted as "the longest poem in the English langwidge," nineteen pages "without a break." With its feigned seamlessness, the poem avoids the bodily breaks that Claude the Cabin Boy, Philomel, and Coriolanus must suffer. Though Pound himself penetrates the poem by editing it, Eliot owed him the illusion of unbroken textual hymen, and the accompanying sense of power.

By giving his text to Pound, Eliot set up the paradigm for the relationship that readers and critics have established with The Waste Land: man to man. The footnotes embody the implied male reader they invite him to enter and understand the poem. They demonstrate that the poem has absences which an external body must fill. The footnotes give value to the poem’s hysteria, and transform it from meaningless chaos into allusiveness. Readers armed with the notes have approached The Waste Land not as if it were a fragment of hysterical discourse, but an artifact converted, by Pound’s mediation, into something masculine. Conrad Aiken, on the poem’s publication wrote that it succeeds "by virtue of its incoherence, not of its plan"; if a woman had written a proudly incoherent text, how would its absences have been judged? The Waste Land has always been a scene of implicit collaboration between the male poet and his male reader, in which Eliot’s hysterical discourse—by the act of collusive interpretation, by the reader’s analytic listening—suffers a sea-change into masculinity.

Eliot used hysterical discourse to invoke the corrective affections of another man. Together, they performed an ambiguous act they engaged in a symbolic scene of homosexual intercourse while freeing themselves from imputations of inverted style. Collaboration was particularly popular in the fin de siècle among men who wrote together to define their distance from homosexuality sometimes this distance was not more than a few inches, though they made it seem like miles. In the next section, by reading doubly authored works of the 1880s, 1890s, and early 1900s (texts contemporaneous with Studies on Hysteria and Sexual Inversion), I hope to reveal the roots of Pound’s and Eliot’s Uranian experiment. By 1922, when The Waste Land emerged, its double authorship concealed, male collaboration had already earned a reputation for perversity.

From Double Talk: The erotics of male literary collaboration. New York: Routledge, 1989.

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Jean-Michel Rabaté

The peculiar "obstetrics" to which the manuscript of the poem was subjected has often been discussed. It is generally agreed that Pound’s cuts transformed a chaotic mass of poetry into a precise, aggressively modern masterpiece. Koestenbaum contends that the poem was "feminine" in its original form but transformed radically by Pound s assertive masculinity. We might indeed he tempted to see in this productive coediting of a great poem the shift away from a bisexuality that left open many potentialities to masculine values mistakenly identified with the essence of high modernism. Moreover, Eliot’s prose poem "Hysteria" already points toward such a feminized pathologia. Koestenbaum writes "Eliot’s poem—semiotic, negative, riddled with absences—is ‘feminine’ not because women always sound like The Waste Land, but because, in 1922, its style might have seemed more recognizable a hysterical woman’s than a male poet’s." He adds curiously "Hysteria is a disturbance in language, and the very word ‘hysteria’ marks it as a woman’s affliction"--which seems to imply that there is no male hysteria! Such an etymological fundamentalism is strange in a critic who wishes to reread modernism from the point of view of gay discourse. Koestenbaum’s predilection for the anus starts from an understandable rehabilitation but leads him into absurdities at times (as when he sees the fatefully repressed organ in Eliot’s identification with a "broken Coriol-anus" or when he reads a double inscription of ‘anus" in the way Pound dates a letter "24 Saturnus, An 1"). Whereas I am entirely ready to see the enigma of bisexuality as one of the most intriguing subplots of the Waste Land, I think that the attempt to queer Eloit and Pound’s collaboration leads to a series of misreadings.

The most crucial case in point is Pound’s rather bawdy letter written to celebrate the "birth" of the poem. This well-known piece of male bantering had been expurgated in D. D. Paige’s edition of Pound’s letters and was only published in full in the first volume of Eliot’s Letters of T.S. Eliot. In the letter, Pound assumes the function of a midwife or rather ‘sage homme," a masculinization of the French sage-femme (midwife): "These are the Poems of Eliot / By the Uranian Muse begot, / A Man their mother was, / A Muse their Sire." The letter leaves no doubt as to the role Pound has chosen: he is only the midwife ("Ezra performed the caesarean operation") and not the impregnator of his friend. From the suppressed lines in which Pound speaks of his own masturbatory activity, Koestenbaum finds an argument for his having actually "fathered" the poem. In fact, Pound merely laments his own impotence, or the fact that his masturbatory writing has prevented him from producing really modern creations, such as Ulysses or the Waste Land:

E. P. hopeless and unhelped

Enthroned in the marmorean skies

His verse omits realities,

Angelic hands with mother of pearl

Retouch the strapping servant girl,

……….

Balls and balls and balls again

Can not touch his fellow men.

His foaming and abundant cream

Has coated his world. The coat of a dream;

Or say that the upjut of sperm

Has rendered his sense pachyderm.

The ironic self-portrait is quite in the mode of Mauberly’s derision. What is deprecated is Pound’s too easy recourse to an ananistic "dangerous supplement"-- which apparently takes "strapping servant girls" as libidinal objects rather than, say, Eliot’s anus. This is why I cannot agree with Koestenbaum’s conclusion: "Pound, Eliot’s male muse, is the sire of The Waste Land." Koestenbaum superimposes two scenes: the scene described in the June 1921 postscript to Pound’s translation of The Natural Philosopy of Love by Remy de Gourmont, in which Pound sees himself as an overactive phallus fertilizing the passive vulva of London, and the many traces of femininity left in Eliot’s Wastle Land. But Koestenbaum forgets that one of the major consequences of Pound’s excisions was to make it much more of a London poem than it had been originally. Pound has not deleted the "femininity" of the poem: he has "framed" it, as it were, within a mythical discourse that is less "male" or "phallocratic" than neutral. Such is the effect of the famous beginning of the poem ("April is the cruelest month"), which leaves the voice anonymous, the "we" asexual and floating in the void, until we hear it modulate into Marie Larisch’s familiar confidences.

In view of these complex issues, I would emphasize instead the disjunctive nature of Eliot and Pound’s collaboration and stress that the blind spots in their joint parturition left what I again would like to call textual ghosts. It is true that Pound drastically modified the draft given to him. He reduced it by half, deleted the long opening describing a night out in Boston ( "He Do the Police in Different Voices"), suppressed the hesitations, the autobiographical tone, and some of the pastiches of classical genres, and hence changed the polyphonic texture or tessitura of the poem. Pound also tried to eliminate all the reminiscences of "Prufrock," as Koestenbaum aptly notes: "Eliot’s wobbliness was made flesh in Prufrock, echoes of which Pound sought to cut," but while he was impatient with Tiresias as a central figure (Pound originally felt the same misguided distaste for Leopold Bloom who, according to him, unduly supplanted Stephen Dedalus), going so far as to write "make up / yr mind / you Tiresias / if you know / know damn well / or / else you / dont" [sic] in the margin, he never persuaded Eliot to change anything substantially in the characterization of the blind and bisexual seer.

Strangely enough, what annoys Pound also annoys Koestenbaum, who would prefer to see Eliot "come out," as it were, rather than hide in ambiguities and ambivalences. Yet it us precisely these hesitations (as laterFinnegans Wake will be written in a systematically undecidable language) that make up the irreducible force of its modernist poetry. This corresponds to the fact that modernism as such, despite Hugh Kenner’s insistence, cannot be reduced so easily and univocally to a phallocratic stance. In a way, this would lead us to admit that high modernism, too, is "softer" than we thought and also closer to Verlaine than to Rimbaud.

If Tiresias is the most important figure of the poem, as Eliot’s central note clearly states, is it not because he embodies a hysterical bisexuality of which Eliot was dreaming at the time? This fantasy cannot be reduced to the clear-cut opposites suggested by Koestenbaum: "Through Tiresias, Eliot describes (from the inside) an epoch we might call The Age of Inversion, when heterosexuality was in the process of being undermined and traduced by its eerie opposite." If indeed the Tiresias paradigm provides Eliot with another "epoch," it us less a dream of inversion than of ecstatic fusion, a dream expressed in the deleted poem, "The Death of Saint Narcissus":

First he was sure that he had been a tree

Twisting its branches among each other

And tangling its roots among each other

Then he knew that he had been a fish

With slippery white belly held tight in his own fingers

Writhing in his own clutch, his ancient beauty

Caught fast in the pink tips of his new beauty.

Then he had been a young girl

Caught in the woods by a drunken old man

Knowing at the end the taste of her own whiteness

The horror of her own smoothness,

And he felt drunken and old.

Here, Eliot rewrites Nietzsche’s praise of dancers in Thus Spake Zarathustra through a myth of metempsychosis that borrows from Empedocles’ famous distych according to which the Greek philosopher had once been "a boy and a girl, a bush, a bird and a fish ," and from Buddha‘s own transformations: these ascetic "rapes" were to lead him to the way of absolute compassion. The rape of a passive girl by an old man whose taste lingers in bitterly in the speaker’s memories, the Buddhist acquiescence to universal metamorphosis, the Keatsian rapture at selflessness – all this sums up what Pound intensly dislikes. This compendium of Eastern mysticism and Western "negative capability" has remained to this date a textual ghost (now and then added to Eliot’s collected works as a curious appendix), outside of the canon constituted by Pound. This shows a different Eliot, closer to Flaubert when he could identify utterly with Emma Bovary and the setting of her love scenes.

The joint attempt by Pound and Eliot to provide a justification for the "modern movement" by publishing at last a modernist masterpiece derives from the very high claims they had made for themselves. All this looks a little like a wholesale takeover bid, a tender offer on European culture, seen as a whole from two conflicting and half-imaginary opposites: Eastern mysticism on the one hand (Pound rewrites Eliot’s more metaphysical drift in his Chinese idiom) and the American pseudo-wilderness on the other. In a letter to his British friend, Mary Hutchinson, Eliot makes a revealing admission, just as he announces his essay on "Tradition" as forthcoming. He concludes a discussion of the different meanings of "culture" and "civilization" on a more personal note: "But remember that I am a metic—a foreigner, and that I want to understand you, and all the background and tradition of you. I shall try to be frank—because the attempt is so very much worthwhile with you — it is very difficult with me —both by inheritance and because of my suspicious and cowardly disposition. But I may simply prove to be a savage." In this wildly flirtatious tone, Eliot conflates images of barbarism and strong moral values inherited from his family, thus discovering the best word to introduce himself (in every sense): a metic, that is, an alien who has been admitted into the city (as in Athens), who has been granted certain rights and pays taxes but cannot have full citizenship or access to the most intimate mysteries.

The metic, both inside and outside, is thus defined from within the polis, which also accounts for the thematic centrality of the city as metropolis in the Waste Land: Oedipus’s Thebes, Augustine’s Carthage, and Baudelaire’s Paris are superimposed upon a London where the city provides a fulcrum for international capitalism. Indeed, the suppressed passage beginning with "He Do the Police in Different Voices" looks back to Dickens’s London with the subtle allusion to Betty Higden’s praise of Sloppy in Our Mutual Friend: Sloppy manages to recreate different policemen’s voices when he reads to her, thanks to his wonderful mimetic abilities. Here, "police" rhymes ironically with polis, while metic leads to a "mimetic" who remains well hidden in the "world’s metropolis" (as Mr. Podsnap says). The ending of the Waste Land finally releases all the voices that had been kept more or less separate and creates a bewildering vortex of hysterical polyphony. This is also a dominant feature in Pound’s Cantos: we keep hearing individual voices whose interaction creates an epic through counterpoint. However, this similarity should not blind us to a crucial divergence—which shall oblige me to examine a last "uncoupling."

If Pound and Eliot agree that "tradition" supposes an "historical sense" that sees the presence of the past as well as its pastness (since "It is dawn at Jerusalem while midnight hovers above the Pillars of Hercules. All ages are contemporaneous," as the preface to the Spirit of Romance momentously states), then they would not translate the Greek concept of polis in exactly the same way. Though both are indeed metics in the British Empire, they opt for different strategies of assimilation and adaptation. Pound always sees the polis in its original Greek meaning, as a religious and political context determined by local polytheism and the domination of a few brilliant minds. Eliot, on the other hand, follows the conclusions of his investigation into European roots and therefore revives linguistic energies dormant in Virgil, Augustine, and Dante. He translates the polis into the "City" (of God or men), that is, into Augustine’s civitas. As Emile Benveniste has shown, polis cannot be translated into civitas without some distortion. In the Greek mind, polis is a concept that predetermines the definition of the citizen aspolites. One is a citizen because one partakes of the abstract concept of the polis, a linguistic radical divided between sameness and otherness, belonging and rejection. In the Latin mentality, the adjective civis comes first, the radical is anterior to the derivation of civitas (meaning "city" in the sense of a group of people living together, and not Urbs, reserved for Rome, the "capital"). In the Latin model, actual people as citizens help derive the concept: thus, civitas refers to a community understood as a mutuality, a collection of mutual obligations.

Eliot’s choice of a quote from Our Mutual Friend to highlight the polyphonic nature of urban discourse out of which contemporary civility must emerge is hardly accidental. Nor was Pound’s erasure of the same motif random. Pound’s historical point of departure is the American Revolution, seen as the birth of the modern idea of the just state and "volitionist" politics; Eliot consistently returns to the English Revolution as the main "catastrophe" of the modern world. According to Eliot, the introduction of the new parliamentary democracy triggered all its attendant negative side effects: the loss of centralized values and the "dissociation of sensibility," which had weakened British culture since the seventeenth century. Thus, Pound is ready to acclaim the "Tovarishes" of the Soviet Revolution in his first cantos, while Eliot condemns the uprising as chaotic, atheistic and "drunken" (through a German quotation taken from Hesse) in the notes to the Waste Land.

Pound’s specific mode of hysterization leads him to play the eccentric, to leave the confines of the Empire, and to embrace Mussolini as a symbolic father, out of sheer ignorance of his regime’s true nature—all the while insisting that he was fighting against ignorance! Eliot, who knew better, and maybe knew too much, chose the opposite strategy, becoming more British than the British after 1927 and his conversion to Anglo-Catholicism and devising a new and quite personal game of hide-and-seek with high culture.

The literary "ghost" produced by such a disjunction must be found in the way Eliot’s success in British and American culture served to acclimatize modernism as a purely intellectual adventure—a "betrayal" that was deeply lamented by William Carlos Williams. The "monsters" Eliot was led to suppress indeed concerned sexuality as well as politics, as Koestenbaum suggests, but his attitude led to dissimilar enabling or disabling strategies if we compare him with Pound who, at least, never really tried to hide his peculiar monsters. These finally brought about the sublimation of modernism into academic enshrining, while at the same time Eliot himself had embraced the values of a revisited classicism. The real ghost generated by the coupling/uncoupling collaboration between Pound and Eliot was in fact just a word: the term "modernism," which could then be thrown as a sop to the academics of the entire world.

From The Ghosts of Modernity. University Press of Florida, 1996.

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David Chinitz

The Waste Land is a much more complex case--in part because the poem that Eliot wrote and the poem that was published differ considerably. The Waste Land would have openly established popular culture as a major intertext of modernist poetry if Pound had not edited out most of Eliot’s popular references. Though Pound, like Eliot, assailed the "very pernicious current idea that a good book must be of necessity a dull one," he did not consider contemporary popular culture seriously as a potential antidote to literary dullness. His work on The Waste Land simply made the poem more Poundian: he collapsed its levels of cultural appeal while leaving its internationalism and historicism intact, recasting the poem as the first major counteroffensive in high culture's last stand. To be sure, almost all Pound's emendations improve the poem, and Eliot acceded to the recommendations of "il miglior fabbro" in virtually every instance. Still, part of Eliot's original impulse in composing The Waste Land was lost in this collaboration precisely because Pound's relation to the cultural divide differed from Eliot's own. Had Eliot improved rather than deleted the passages condemned by Pound, he might have given literary modernism a markedly different spin.

The manuscript of The Waste Land shows Eliot drawing on popular song to a greater extent than he uses the Grail myth in the final version. For the long idiomatic passage that was to have opened the poem he considered several lyrics from popular musicals. "I'm proud of all the Irish blood that's in me / There's not a man can say a word agin me," he quotes from a George M. Cohan show; from two songs in the minstrel tradition he constructs "Meet me in the shadow of the watermelon Vine / Eva Iva Uva Emmaline"; from The Cubanola Glide he takes "Tease, Squeeze lovin & wooin / Say Kid what're y' doin.’" The characters' nocturnal spree then takes them to a bar that Eliot frequented after attending melodramas in Boston:

                            Blew into the Opera Exchange, 

Sopped up some gin, sat in to the cork game,

Mr. Fay was there, singing "The Maid of the Mill."

Pointing out that these lines are "the first examples in the draft of [Eliot's] famous techniques of quotation and juxtaposition," Michael North suggests a direct connection between the miscellaneous format of the minstrel show--or, one might add, the English music hall--and the very form of The Waste Land. But the hints of popular song that survive in the published Waste Land are eclipsed by the more erudite allusions that dominate the poem. Thanks to the deletion of the original opening section, for example, the first line places the poem squarely within the "great tradition" of English poetry. A long poem called The Waste Land that begins, "April is the cruellest month," largely shaped the course of literature and criticism for years to follow. One can only imagine the effect of a long poem called He Do the Police in Different Voices beginning, "First we had a couple of feelers down at Tom's place."

From "T.S. Eliot and the Cultural Divide." PMLA 110.2 (March 1995).

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