T.S Eliot Quote

[Dark Muse]

I stumbled upon this quote and was just currious on any thoughts as to what it means.

I will show you fear in a handful of dust
T.S.Eliot, The Waste Land

[Virgil]

It's hard to pull out of context, but it suggests the death we all face and God's judgement. Here's the section from the poem:


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, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Notice the biblical diction. The voice has always struck me as God talking.

[Dark Muse]

Ahh yes I can see now

[Ductape]

In addition, "Son of man" is a reference to the Christ. Nearly half the books of the New Testament refer to Jesus as the 'son of man' while the others refer to him as the 'son of god'.

Jesus also refers to himself as the 'son of man' rather than claiming the title of 'son of god'. He seems to stress this at some point, and though i have pulled out my bible to find it, i guess I'm not that eager to prove my point. If you look in either Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John it will be there.

[Rav Maji]

Read the passage thirty times. What you feel is what it means.

[quasimodo1]

La Figlia Che Piange

O quam te memorem Virgo ...


Stand on the highest pavement of the stair--
Lean on a garden urn--
Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair--
Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise--
Fling them to the ground and turn
With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:
But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.

So I would have had him leave,
So I would have had her stand and grieve,
So he would have left
As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,
As the mind deserts the body it has used.
I should find
Some way incomparably light and deft,
Some way we both should understand,
Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand. {excerpt}{La Figlia Che Piange, The Weeping Girl}

[stlukesguild]

Quasi... it's been a while since I read Prufrock and other Poems... and I almost forgot just how beautiful... how powerful T.S. Eliot can be. It's easy to forget that in light of his criticism and the "myth" that grew up around him and The Wasteland. Thanks for the reminder...:thumbs_up

[stlukesguild]

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, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

The metaphor of the Wasteland certainly relates to the destruction of the First World War... but even more importantly it relates to modern man's lost of a sense of connectedness with his "roots"... with his artistic/cultural... and importantly for Eliot, his religious heritage. "You know only a heap of broken images..." for art/paintings/sculptures... literature as well is nothing but a "broken" meaningless image without any connectedness to its greater meanings. I agree that the diction and the symbols are quite Biblical. The dead tree rather than the tree of life? The absence of water... the water of life... water that is such a Biblical symbol of life and rejuvenation and purity. Of course the "handful of dust" seemingly alludes to the very element from which mankind, according to Biblical narrative, was created. I balk at any simple notion of a single interpretation or "meaning" being inscribed to this, or any strong poem... but certainly an understanding of the symbols that Eliot is alluding to brings a deeper "understanding"... and I would assume that a lack of knowledge of those symbols/allusions from Western cultural history are the very thing that the Wasteland sings of in elegy.

[quasimodo1]

To Stlukesguild et all: Eliot, it's sad to say, is forced on students in college and many must think that Prufrock, Wasteland and the feline play is all there is. Of course there's also the ethnic bashing which is problematic. Despite this, his poetry (and there is some upscale prose too) still shines for many and even remains as a kind of quality control template. No offense, Eliot lovers.

[Virgil]

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, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

The metaphor of the Wasteland certainly relates to the destruction of the First World War... but even more importantly it relates to modern man's lost of a sense of connectedness with his "roots"... with his artistic/cultural... and importantly for Eliot, his religious heritage. "You know only a heap of broken images..." for art/paintings/sculptures... literature as well is nothing but a "broken" meaningless image without any connectedness to its greater meanings. I agree that the diction and the symbols are quite Biblical. The dead tree rather than the tree of life? The absence of water... the water of life... water that is such a Biblical symbol of life and rejuvenation and purity. Of course the "handful of dust" seemingly alludes to the very element from which mankind, according to Biblical narrative, was created. I balk at any simple notion of a single interpretation or "meaning" being inscribed to this, or any strong poem... but certainly an understanding of the symbols that Eliot is alluding to brings a deeper "understanding"... and I would assume that a lack of knowledge of those symbols/allusions from Western cultural history are the very thing that the Wasteland sings of in elegy.

StLukes you just reminded me why I love that poem so much and why I love Eliot. Intellectually he's my father.

[quasimodo1]

T.S.Eliot fan test: Do you ever find yourself mumbling "The women come and go, speaking of Michelangelo..."?

[Virgil]

T.S.Eliot fan test: Do you ever find yourself mumbling "The women come and go, speaking of Michelangelo..."?

:lol: I do, I do!! That and "I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled." :D

[quasimodo1]

Allrighty then, knew I wasn't the only one.

[quasimodo1]

And Virgil, this quote is a mantra as well... Gerontion by T. S. Eliot
Thou hast nor youth nor age
But as it were an after dinner sleep
Dreaming of both.


HERE I am, an old man in a dry month,
Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.
I was neither at the hot gates
Nor fought in the warm rain

[Virgil]

And Virgil, this quote is a mantra as well... Gerontion by T. S. Eliot
Thou hast nor youth nor age
But as it were an after dinner sleep
Dreaming of both.


HERE I am, an old man in a dry month,
Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.
I was neither at the hot gates
Nor fought in the warm rain

Yes, though that one doesn't come to me on the fly. ;) As I'm getting to be an old man, I'll have to drill it into me.

[stlukesguild]

As I'm getting to be an old man, I'll have to drill it into me.

That and the Four Quartets.

[quasimodo1]

Old man wise, unfortunately, believe I have seniority. If I ever find myself at an aarp meeting, well, desperate measures will have to be taken.

[Virgil]

Here's another that frequently comes to mind:

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
-T. S. Eliot, The Hollow Men

[stlukesguild]

Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Toward the door we never opened
In the rose-garden.

Burnt Norton- The Four Quartets

[quasimodo1]

That quote is like a haunting. Who can read history the same after Eliot's take. I guess the one part of his work that I never experienced was his "Cats" play and other drama. Wonder what was actually missed.

[Virgil]

I used to have this as a signature at one time:


We shall not cease from exploration. And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time. -T. S. Eliot, Little Gidding

[stlukesguild]

Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age
To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort.
First, the cold friction of expiring sense
Without enchantment, offering no promise
But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit
As body and soul begin to fall asunder.
Second, the conscious impotence of rage
At human folly, and the laceration
Of laughter at what ceases to amuse.
And last, the rending pain of re-enactment
Of all that you have done, and been; the shame
Of motives late revealed, and the awareness
Of things ill done and done to others' harm
Which once you took for exercise of virtue.
Then fools' approval stings, and honour stains.
From wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit
Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire
Where you must move in measure, like a dancer.'

Little Gidding-The Four Quartets

[quasimodo1]

Another fantastic mantra, in the truest eastern sense. Who really compares with Eliot this way? Arnold J. Toynbee, and he's no poet. How about.......Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking....Ash Wensday.

[quasimodo1]

I was refering to Virgil's quote. Stlukesguild's is almost a positive sermon, yes? And I hate sermons. Wait, what happened to it. I wonder if Janine is up and about, or if she even has interest in Eliot.

[quasimodo1]

Remembering "Rhapsody on a Windy Night"....The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.

[stlukesguild]

Another fantastic mantra, in the truest eastern sense. Who really compares with Eliot this way?

Perhaps Stevens... who certainly was every bit the poet as Eliot:

Light the first light of evening as in a room
In which we rest, and for small reason, think
The world imagined the ultimate good...

We say God and the imagination are one...
How high that highest candle lights the dark.

Out of this same light, out of the central mind,
We make a dwelling in the evening air,
In which being there together is enough.

Wallace Stevens- from-Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour

[Virgil]

I was refering to Virgil's quote. Stlukesguild's is almost a positive sermon, yes? And I hate sermons. Wait, what happened to it. I wonder if Janine is up and about, or if she even has interest in Eliot.

Her computer crashed the other day Quasi and other than at the library she has not been on. I don't think she has an interest in Eliot.

On another note, I've wanted to do a thread on The Four Quartets. I wonder if there is any interest. But I'm so tied up now it would probably be in the winter.

[Virgil]

Another fantastic mantra, in the truest eastern sense. Who really compares with Eliot this way?

Perhaps Stevens... who certainly was every bit the poet as Eliot:

Light the first light of evening as in a room
In which we rest, and for small reason, think
The world imagined the ultimate good...

We say God and the imagination are one...
How high that highest candle lights the dark.

Out of this same light, out of the central mind,
We make a dwelling in the evening air,
In which being there together is enough.

Wallace Stevens- from-Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour

Oh I love that poem by Stevens StLukes.

[quasimodo1]

Stevens is equal or better, if its not apples, oranges. He has the same kind of intensity and range. Wish I could remember more of him; is he more complex? Linguistically?

[quasimodo1]

Janine has crashed computer; thought she just acquired a new one...like two months ago. The Four Quartets could be done...crazy time of year, though.

[Virgil]

Janine has crashed computer; thought she just acquired a new one...like two months ago. The Four Quartets could be done...crazy time of year, though.

Yeah, you think either before or after the holidays would be best? No I don't believe Janine got a new computer. She's told me fpr the longest time she had an old one.

[quasimodo1]

Selective memory. For some reason when Wallace Stevens and Eliot are up, I think of Ezra Pound. In the same package somehow.

[stlukesguild]

We shall not cease from exploration. And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.

A mantra repeated in numerous form:

Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present...

...Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.

From Burnt Norton

In my beginning is my end...

O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark...

I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away—

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 of 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:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth.

You say I am repeating
Something I have said before. I shall say it again.
Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not...

from East Coker

[quasimodo1]

In Tempore Senectutis by Ezra Pound
When I am old
I will not have you look apart
From me, into the cold,
Friend of my heart,
Nor be sad in your remembrance
Of the careless, mad-heart semblance
That the wind hath blown away
When I am old.

When I am old
And the white hot wonder-fire
Unto the world seem cold,
My soul's desire
Know you then that all life's shower,
The rain of the years, that hour
Shall make blow for us one flower,
Including all, when we are old.

When I am old
If you remember
Any love save what is then
Hearth light unto life's December
Be your joy of past sweet chalices
To know then naught but this
"How many wonders are less sweet
Than love I bear to thee
When I am old."
-----------------------------------East Coker, that one got by me. The old arguments in History or Philosophy class...history as the pendulum, the circle, the straight line etc. I'm going with elipse. And Virgil, anything need be done to get Janine back on?

[stlukesguild]

Stevens is equal or better, if its not apples, oranges. He has the same kind of intensity and range. Wish I could remember more of him; is he more complex? Linguistically?

More complex? Different. Eliot... in a manner... may be the more "conservative", building upon the diction of the great poetic language he so admires: Dante, the Bible, Shakespeare, and certainly Whitman... in spite of his denial. Stevens in many ways is the more "abstract"... "hermetic"... perhaps even the more difficult. I remember being somewhat surprised that Harold Bloom suggested that he initially had his doubts about what he first read as Steven's intentional obscurity... abstraction... as mere ornate artfulness (this from a critic who'd been reading Hart Crane at an age when I was struggling with Tolkein!:lol:). I was certainly somewhat put off... or rather uncomprehending upon my first exposure to Stevens... while Eliot... for all the apparent "difficulties" immediately seduced me intellectually.:confused:

[stlukesguild]

Sailing to Byzantium

THAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

William Butler Yeats

(As the circle around Eliot grows ever wider...)

[quasimodo1]

There is great difficulty for me to hear any literary person, of whatever skill, talking about intentional obscurity and poetry in the same sentence. I do remember William Matthews describing how he got his job at university as an ability to write "fluent fog", but he was speaking of a genre he grew out of. Poetry by nature is not declaritive writing and its the type of fog or allusion or reference that makes it great. Poets need not follow the rules of the novel; hence its attractiveness...at least to me. And I never went to the mat with Tolkein. One sample was enough. Movie at 11.

[stlukesguild]

Perchance the difficulty of poetry for many...lies in the fact that it cannot be easily reduced to a mere "meaning"... that those simple means of analysis taught in school: character development, theme, narrative, moral, etc... are not often enough to grasp its worth... beauty... that the mere music of the words and the form they take can make all the difference in the world...

[quasimodo1]

The circle does grow wider. Of all poets, I'm drawing close to a blank on who influenced Eliot. He did his doctoral on F.H.Bradley who had scientific leanings. What that means for that era, something like old school epistemology. We had that at CU. Useless. Any thoughts on Bradley?

[quasimodo1]

.....His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
{last lines of Preludes} These lines could easily be added to "The Wasteland".

[stlukesguild]

Of all poets, I'm drawing close to a blank on who influenced Eliot.

Certainly Whitman... especially the Whitman of When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd.

[quasimodo1]

Whitman was a Camden resident and a nurse in the Civil War. Do you have any concept as to how he influenced him. Stylisticly I guess but content? This needs another look.

[quasimodo1]

Stlukesguild: Since I have a meeting in the Am, let us continue tomorrow eve. This is a delight. Great fun.

[stlukesguild]

Yes... Virgil's checked out already... and I would love to go to the studio tomorrow... the first time in 3 days.

[quasimodo1]

.....The hippopotamus's day
Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
God works in a mysterious way -
The church can sleep and feed at once

I saw the 'potamus take wing
Ascending from the damp savannas,
And quiring angels round him sing
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.

Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
Among the saints he shall be seen
Performing on a harp of gold.

He shall be washed as white as snow,
By all martyr'd virgins kist,
While the True Church remains below
Wrapt in old miasmal mist.

-- T. S. Eliot {last stanzas of "Hippopotamus"}

[quasimodo1]

http://i840.photobucket.com/albums/zz321/quasimodo1/TSEliot2.jpg --- Any poet, if he is to survive beyond his 25th year, must alter; he must seek new literary influences; he will have different emotions to express.
T. S. Eliot