Upon my first reading of Eliot's "Four Quartets," I was pleasantly surprised by what Dr. Burris identifies as an admirable consistancy in Eliot's body of work. I expected the Eliot of "FQ" to be quite different than the Eliot of "The Wasteland"-- somewhere along the way, someone(s) gave me the impression that the later, reconciled Eliot contrasted starkly with the earlier, discontented one (that his "conversion" greatly impacted his writing, and that his poetics pre-conversion were worth much more time/study). I suppose I see now what would cause one to make such a distinction, but I prefer seeing the consistencies that Dr. B points out, looking at Eliot's individual works as parts of a larger project, to emphasizing the differences among his individual works.
The view of humanity Eliot presents in "The Wasteland" re-appears periodically in "FQ." In the third section of "Burnt Norton," the speaker describes "strained time-ridden faces. . . / Filled with fancies and empty of meaning." Such faces belong to "Men" who possess "unwholesome lungs" and "unhealthy souls" and who are blown about by wind, "that sweeps the gloomy hills of London," as bits of paper. Such a characterization continues throughout the text, as in the second section of "Little Gidding," where descriptions of the painful realization of "human folly" and your own deeds "ill done" appear.
Additionally, the same distaste for modernity that pervades "WL" is echoed throughout "FQ." The passage Dr. B mentions-- musings about the river being a "strong brown god" is directly followed by the river being "almost forgotten . . . By worshippers of the machine."
Rather than such descriptions functioning as the focus of the text (as is the case with "WL"), Eliot presents them more as illustrations of why our existence is so transitory and of why we are nearly incapable of coping with such a realization. (I think the calmness with which Eliot presents this state of affairs is perhaps the reason some characterize "FQ" as so different than "WL"; additionally, such descriptions read more like forgiving acknowledgments than indictments-- I'm thinking of the last section of "The Dry Salvages": we "are only undefeated/ Because we have gone on trying.") Indeed, Eliot seems much more concerned with (maybe even impressed by?) the state of nature rather than of humanity, as the former functions comfortably (and almost "knowingly") in perpetual transience. I'm thinking of Eliot's frequent allusions to seasons changing and also (perhaps more importantly) of Nature's way of marking (?) time. The "tolling bell" (introduced in the first section of "The Dry") that "Measures time not our time, rung by the unhurried/ Ground swell" is a particularly striking image.
This recurring theme of our transient existence, however, was none too comforting to me this weekend-- as I was reading "FQ," I was being herded on and off of 10 row airplanes (not even four
seats per row) that had faulty engines, malfunctioning steering equipment, etc. For one who needs medication to fly on a plane that is in good shape, these circumstances were a less than ideal combination with Eliot. As I felt my certain death approaching, I got hung up on Eliot's pattern of fire imagery (probably due to the fact that I read Baldwin's "The Fire Next Time" last week). So that I was reading Eliot's phrases, such as "destructive fire," "frigid purgatorial fires," "To be redeemed from fire by fire," "crowned knot of fire," in rather apocalyptic ways, though I acknowledge my personal anxiety coupled with my reading list of late colored this reading-- any thoughts?
Lastly, I think Eliot continues to be quite relevant, but I'm not sure I can back this up with anything particularly scholarly sounding. It probably goes without saying that many of the issues modernists, including Eliot, were grappling with continue to haunt our postmodern era. As much as I love "WL" and as many similarities as I see between it and "FQ," the latter seems quite a bit more balanced (refreshing?) than the former. I suppose what I mean by "balanced" is realistic, or an acknowledgment/portrayal of complexity that I think "WL" in some ways lacks (i.e. "FQ" doesn't make me want to open a vein like "WL" does). We could use a bit more "balance." Thus, I for one am willing to overlook any conservatism in Eliot in favor of the more synthetic view he provides.
I'm afraid to admit that I can't contribute much to Amy's post. She focused her discussion primarily on the relationship between "Four Quartets" and "The Wasteland," and--I'm sorry--but I just can't stand that poem. I've read it at least five or six times--the most recent being just under a year ago--but every single time, immediately after having finished, I involuntarily scrub the experience from my memory. Unless I want to go dig out my copy and take another look (which I really don't), I can't recall enough about "The Wasteland" to even try and formulate a response.
Of course, I should say that, since "The Wasteland" has considerable academic "street cred," I've always acknowledged that perhaps I just didn't try enough or have a teacher who properly explained the poem; although, my last professor to teach the poem (Christina Hauck!) was a pretty damn good teacher. Amy: you say that you "love 'The Wasteland.'" If we have time in class, I wouldn't mind hearing you elaborate your comparison & perhaps demonstrating to me why I should feel the same way.
So, because of my deficiencies when it comes to "The Wasteland," I'm going to direct my comment toward Dr. Burris's post.
First: a question. Dr. Burris writes, "Eliot had his subject matters, and they were presented and developed in an orderly fashion, and as a result, Eliot's poetic career is imminently 'readable,' patently interpretable."
I'm afraid I don't quite follow this logic. This rationale, to me, would suggest that Eliot's "orderly" poetry would resist multiple interpretations. Instead, Eliot sounds like a perfect example for Hirsch: the poetry is highly organized and developed for the purpose of solving a problem, which it eventually does. The poetry then seems closed: the meaning is fixed and obvious. Can anyone explain what I am missing?
Since I've now asked a question, I feel obliged to work toward answering one. Again, referring to Dr. Burris's post:
As you probably know, Eliot's stock has dropped somewhat since the heyday of the 40s and 50s. But I wonder why it has dropped, precisely. Of course he's conservative politically and artistically, and we tend to fancy ourselves very liberal. But I think there's more to it than that.
I'm certainly no expert when it comes to the history of American poetry & its various movements and mutations; however, based on what I do know, there seems to be a shift in artistic trends around the mid-1950s that rejects Eliot's highly formalized poetry of ideas. With the ascension of poets like Sylvia Plath, the artistic community (establishment?) shifts from "poetry of ideas" to "poetry of emotions." Form seems to be de-emphasized and highly confessional poetry is preferred to somewhat detached explorations of time and history. Older academics may have rejected this shift, but the younger scholars brought it to the academy. More importantly, because the shift was so pervasive it changed the popular conception of poetry's form and function--I do think that if you play a word association game with people and say "poetry," they are more likely to respond "emotional" than "intellectual." So, along with the generational shift of academics and artists, with their new criteria for the evaluation of poetry, the expectations of incoming English students change (and yes, that does affect what is taught).
Of course, this explanation does not explain why the shift from emphasis on "ideas" to "emotions" takes place, nor does it operate independently of other factors--such as Eliot's conservatism.
I'd be interested to hear thoughts on my pet theory. I'd also like to hear thoughts--in our posts & in class--on additional questions from Dr. Burris:
Eliot has a very distinct vision of art and its purpose, which is, to my eye, visible in his poetry from time to time. How would you characterize it?...What are the poem's essential subjects, and do they engage us today? Why or why not?
I'm curious to hear thoughts on this, and to work toward an answer. As of now, I don't have a clear enough response to feel comfortable writing, but hopefully I'll have formulated something by classtime tomorrow.
Posted by: Jack Ayres | February 25, 2008 at 07:41 PM
I think that the direct allusions to Christianity in "The Four Quartets" disrupt the flow of the poem, a poem that I generally find to have a beautifully cosmic scope that is quite detached from dogma. I find many of the ideas in the poem to be quite relevant to a postmodern worldview, though, somewhat in comment to Jack's posting, maybe not to the postmodern relationship with art.
Though Eliot inserts passages about prayer and transubstantiation into the the poem, he also defies belief systems in other passages. Take, for example this passage from "East Coker":
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love
For love would be love for the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought(125-130).
This passage is at least very relevant to my postmodern mind. For me, history is a long list of experiments in utopia, humans thinking they know what the world needs, but not getting it quite right or perhaps not getting it right at all. If we are to judge the human mind by what we can observe about its performance in the past, then the human mind appears to be limited. I don't have any answers about how to move forward with the knowledge that all supposed solutions create new issues and problems. This is one of the biggest questions, I think, of my generation. But I think there is something positive in the humility that it takes to acknowledge that human consciousness cannot concieve of the whole universe and beyond, that we are "not ready for thought."
Now I'd like to talk a little about Jack's question about why poetry shifted from the predominance of the intellectual to the predominance of the emotional. It seems to me that the Modernist poets we've studied, here I'm refering to Stevens and Eliot, went on highly philosophical and intellectual quests that somehow underminded the intellect in the process. Late in his career, Stevens expounded on the need to revert back to a state of ignorance to write poetry and gave poetry back to everyone who reads it, thus, in an ideal world, allowing all intellectual levels to derive what they wished from a poem, which sort of destroys a poem's ability to present precise intellectual arguments. Eliot, even in his alleged conservatism and dogma, declared the mind as it is on Earth not ready for thought, which seems to ultimately negate intellectual musings. As I read Dr. Burris's post last week about the decline of intellectualism in America, I found myself wondering if Modernism's very intellectual arguments about the limits of the human intellect somehow trickled into the popular mindset and was interpreted as a mandate to abandon the pursuit of a highly cultivated conciousness. In terms of the world of poetry, it follows that if the intellect is not the grand path to the truth that it was once thought to be, then why not try other aspects of human perception, such as emotion.
Posted by: Margaret Poist | February 25, 2008 at 09:16 PM
Confession: I can't really "read" The Waste Land any more than I can "watch" Daniel Day-Lewis in Last of the Mohicans--I've read the poem so many times, and loved it, and seen the film so many times, and loved it, that I can't really depict to you with any accuracy exactly what it is I'm now reading and seeing. Most likely it's some muddled, self-involved reflection of a mutable self-projection that masquerades as an opinion. I've loved both works, lived with them, suffered with them, prospered with them, and wouldn't imagine life without them. We probably need to talk about this phenomenon, or this use of literature and art.
Jack is correct to say that my own reading of Eliot's career would most likely suit Hirsch. I hadn't thought of it in those terms, but it's true. Jack's question has set me to reconsidering what I wrote. Let me try to clarify what I said.
I meant to suggest that however we might ultimately view Eliot's poems--orderly, disorderly, mannered, unmannered, crazy, chaotic--they embraced these qualities in service of a larger problem, which we might try to define, and when that larger problem was solved, the poetry can be seen to have run its course, its utility played out. Rather like using a lawn mower to cut the grass--when the grass is cut, you put the mower up, and you don't continue to mow the yard. The problem--long grass--has been solved, and the tool--lawnmower--that was used to solve the problem is no longer useful.
I get this sense in Eliot's verse, and it doesn't really have to do with the way each poem is interpreted as much as it has to do with the purpose those poems serve. We can talk about meaning; I'm talking about purpose. To be aware of this in a poet, I'm suggesting, is unusual but characteristic of Eliot.
Which is why I would argue that he is an unusual poet.
At least.
Posted by: sburris | February 25, 2008 at 10:05 PM
I had a certain hesitancy about Allen Ginsberg's "Howl" before I had ever even read the poem, which I did not do until my fourth year as an undergraduate. I'm aware that this pre-judgment seems patently unfair, but allow to explain:
For years, going back as far as high school, I suffered through my peers talking about the brilliance of Ginsberg, Kerouac, and the whole Beat movement. My fellow teens and undergrad would whimsically pontificate upon how illuminating the work was, and how it spoke to them. However, whenever I pressed them for details, they were unable to provide explanations. My theory was always that they liked the Beats because it gave them the encouragement and rationalization to take drugs.
A related anecdote: I recently had a brief conversation with my girlfriend about The Beatles. Referring to some friends who had said they didn't like the band, she asked, "How can *anyone* not like the Beatles? I mean, they're the Beatles? How can you not just automatically recognize that they're the best band ever?" I WANTED to ask her why exactly she was so positive they were "the best band ever,"--what was the criteria for making such a claim, and how did The Beatles fulfill it--but I've learned from past experiences with women that it's often best just to let those things slide. As far as I'm concerned, for every truly beautiful and timeless Beatles song, there's another borderline maudlin and conventional to match. So, I don't think it's the music itself that has made so many young people of my generation "automatically recognize" the greatest of the Beatles; I think it's because that's what they've been told since they could remember such things. And who has been telling them? Their parents, and all the other Baby Boomers--the rebels turned establishment who refuse to let go of their youth.
It's hardly surprising that the Boomers fawn over and exalt the Beatles every opportunity they can: for their generation, the Beatles really were more than just a band--they were spiritual, moral, and political guides. Unfortunately, even though the Boomers eventually cast aside their youthful ideals, they refused to cast aside their youthful obsessions. The defining characteristics of the Baby Boomer is self-absorption, and they have clung to the belief that what was important to them as youth is important to all youth. And, their indoctrination has been successful.
My impression is that most young people my age who speak of the brilliance of "Howl" weren't really moved by it; rather, they just thought they were supposed to be moved by it. Although the poem can be rightfully commended for its audaciousness, and does have genuine moments of lyrical beauty, I tend to find its self-absorption and presumptuousness frustrating. For me, the poem is an engaging, amusing, and even well-crafted artifact of the period, yet it now lacks some credibility and a legitimate contemporary relevance.
In many ways, "Howl" represents the worst the Boomer generation had to offer--though perhaps also the best. Ginsberg displays the petulant qualities of the Boomers--their smugness and self-centeredness--from the opening lines of his poem:
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by / madness, starving hysterical naked, / dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn / looking for an angry fix (9)
I cannot help but agree with Phillip Lopate, who--in his article, "Howl and Me"--finds it just a tad presumptuous of Ginsberg to declare himself the spokesman of "his" generation. It seems a bit unfair for someone to speak on behalf of everyone who, by mere coincidence, was born within the same fifteen year window. Not only does Ginsberg (and I will use "Ginsberg" rather than "the speaker") find it appropriate to appoint himself the representative of his generation, he manages to point out that he and his friends are "the best minds" of it. In "Footnote to 'Howl'" he goes as far as to canonize his comrades ("Holy Kerouac")! In many ways, "Howl" becomes Ginsberg's self-indulgent ode to the brilliance of his divinely-inspired clique, who speak for the less capable through idiosyncratic art and reckless behavior.
This presumption to speak for an entire generation is even more frustrating when one looks at the behavior Ginsberg describes and, at least implicitly, endorses:
"angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly / connection to the starry dynamo in the machi / nery of night, / who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat / up smoking in the supernatural darkness of / cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities / contemplating jazz...who were expelled from the academies" (9)
Ah, the romance of dropping out and getting high! Of course, with the exception of those lucky few such as Ginsberg who could behave this way and succeed, this philosophy really is nothing more than a romance. Lopate--who does admit to enjoying the poem both as a youth and an adult--criticizes Ginsberg's romanticization. Lopate write:
What about all those working stiffs who would not end up raving lunatics, who could not afford to drop out, were we automatically judged mediocre, and condemned to a lower status than 'the best minds,' by dint of negleting or refusing to fall apart? (89)
I think Lopate helps illuminate a major problem of "Howl": in many ways, it is a spoiled teenagers fantasy. It is a shrieking cry for attention; an outburst. Tantrums are hard to ignore, and they can even be somewhat entertaining, but they're also irritating. I see "Howl" has something of a foot-stomping tantrum, even if it was borne of genuine frustration. I don't believe the legitimacy of that anger truly resonates with most young readers now, though. Perhaps they relate to the general sense of disillusionment in the poem, but I think it's more likely that teens enjoy the poem because they been told it's a teen's poem.
"Howl" is an interesting poem and not a poorly written poem. However, I do think that it has been unfairly exalted. In many ways, the Beats are a blip in the political, social, and artistic history of the United States. Yet, since it flourished during the youth of the Boomers--that period which forever defines them and they refuse to relinquish--it has been granted a prestige and importance it does not really deserve.
Posted by: Jack Ayres | February 29, 2008 at 10:51 PM
I guess along with the generational shift of academics and artists, with their new criteria for the evaluation of poetry, the expectations of incoming English students change..
Luigi Hanway
Posted by: scissor lifts | April 06, 2010 at 01:26 AM