"The Waste Land" Essay, Research Paper
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 d?cor 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.
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’s Hugh 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.
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