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Do these add up to a world? Can we get a world through paratactic addition? We can only move in this place on the road. Do we imagine that this road was made by people? A road functions like the idea ofwater, a possibility. We say the road moves through the mountains, but the road is static. The road moves or winds as if unfolding through our walking even before our walking. We recognize a road as itself a proleptic picture or manifestation of our own experience ofwhat the road promises. Can you step into the same road twice? The road snakes winding, the skin o f a rock serpent, "above among the mountains". The idea of water and of negation translate as a kind of effect into the "Here", where this road as something made recalls an origin, a making in which the mountains were negated, and transformed. The 'is' of existence in "here is not water. .
is not continued in the mountains, "[w]hich are mountains of rock without water": the mountains are the mountains (an identity), but also "the mountains o f . . . " (predication). These mountains consist of what is, that is, "of rock without water'. The mountains are what they consist of, which is what exists as being (the rock) and not-being (not-water). Three uses o f our verb o f 'to be' function identically here.
The road which was above, and because above among the mountains, move us up. This movement makes apparent that what is above is the same as below. Transcendence, pursuedasanallegory,cannotbetowardanotherplace. Castingtheworldunderthe category of not-water excavates not the space for transcendence, but the space in which we place ourselves within this world. No-water means "We are here". What transcendence is possible, here, offers itself in turning us out o f the space made by the n o - water.
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We move not on the road but by virtue o f the road, but this virtue once called forth places us on the road:
If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
If there were only water amongst the rock
We seem to be moving, although not towards any promise.
can neither stop nor think. We should stop for water, we would or we might or it would be good if we did, in order to drink. The water would answer to our need, but without water we will not or cannot stop. The next line, however, inverts 'there were water we" into "Amongst the rock one cannot stop or", from a plural possibility of community to an abstract One. "Should" becomes "cannot"; one moves by necessity as if by a law of repulsionbetweenthelivingorthehumanandtheinanimate,rocks. Butwhathumanity remains in "one", already abstracted into a categorical identity, and thus akin to rocks? But a kind o f parallelism identifies one's inability to stop "amongst the rock" and the absence o f "water amongst the rock" that suggests that we Narcissus like find ourselves in or even as water. The absence ofwater is, therefore, the absence ofhumanity or our humanity. Againwearemarkedasthenegativelimitofthisworld.
Can sweat be dry? Are we moving and yet always touching the ground? Someone's body has become an object where sweat is never water in the world but only one imagines salt, but that residue is not apparent. The water from our body is dry, which is nonsense.
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We are moving because we
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In what we imagine is his argument against motion, Zeno pictures an infinite gap between movement and being in space: "That which moves, moves neither in the place in which it is, nor in that in which it is not" (Freeman, 47). This is either a confusion in the definition of movement, which should be understood as a metadescription, Ax, or a problem in representation solved by the calculus. For Zeno in his defense o f Parmenides the possibility o f contradiction determines the limits o f what can exist. Earlier Thales had argued that life is movement. Thus Parmenides argued not only that what exists is unchangeable, unmoving, continuous and ungenerated, but that this existence includes us as living beings. Eliot attempts to include being human within a logic o f identity that does not lead to Parmenides' totality, as a metaphor let's say x=x, but to fragments, or x=y; x=z; z=a; etc. This equality between disparate identities is, however, not underwritten by self-reflection or any metaphoric version of the associative law.
The road is always both a totality relative to us (and thus we can disregard the earth's changed position and the totality of altered relations things and people have to the road), and thus we can step into it twice. The road is also determined as a road through ourmovementonit,anetchingoftimepointingalwaysforward. Theroadasaway inscribes hope in its proleptic winding.
Dead mountain mouth o f carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors mudracked houses
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A dying earth, if not already dead, gap-mouthed (the dead soldier on the ground in Guernica) becomes person-like in death, gaining a coherence through its inanimate stasis; death brings the world into human form, where life like the Hyacinth garden, or the possibility o f "April with his showres soote," turns the enervation o f will into the sign o f human death:
"They called me the hyacinth girl. "
Yet when we came back, late from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart o f light, the silence.
Oed' und leer das Meer.
Water from the empty sea is reduced to the absence of spit. Water is what Quine calls a mass term, where the plural is the same as the singular: our investment and use o f these words invokes our existence within a confusion between identity and containment; to avoid this confusion, and thus to mark our relation with God is what motivated Quakers to insist on using 'thee' and 'thou' in conversation to distinguish singular and plural uses ('ye' and 'you') of the second person; what's at stake in this? the loss of this distinction has a moral and an ontological consequence; but if we can call this, along with the Quakers, a confusion, it is also a connection, a dissolution in the way Heidegger attempts to dissolve identity into function, between identity and existence. The absence o f water excludes the grammar of these words and thus this link. But is not the realm of the dead a
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world which lacks exactly this link between identity and existence, at least human, mortal existence?
The emptiness (leer) is transposed into the leer ofthe "red sullen faces [that] sneer and snarl" . The emptiness o f the sea in the world o f neither living nor dead (the dying? ) becomes in the world o f still dying, in the midst o f the dead, populated both by mudracked houses (memory ofwater: like the mountains translated into static objects by the loss of water) and hostile faces (why nothing more than faces? ). The living world with its hyacinth girls draws the world as only this possibility o f love and nothing else: a poem. As
this possibility shrinks the world becomes repopulated with meaningless objects, not as metonymies or metaphors of love or the beloved, but ofthemselves; the waters recede, the desolationofpossiblebutvanishingfecunditybecomesadesolationofthedead. A metonymy o f itself? A metaphor o f itself is an-identity: a=a.
Our dying coalesces the metaphors into personification; can one then stand, lie, or sit on these teeth or in this hole of the mouth? : "[0]ne can neither stand nor lie nor sit". This reads like a description o f an ambush in the desert o f the American west, the hero without a home surrounded by enemies in mud houses and from the mountains. The proving ground where a hero becomes a hero: a world of difference and identity formulated by the possible negation o f the hero, o f substance. The world can be reconstituted if these threatened negations are themselves negated, and the world o f "Oed'
und leer das Meer" would return. But it was this silence that led to mountains in the first place.
This fragmentation cuts life off from other forms of life:
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And the dead tree gives not shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Thisrealityiswithoutwhatthetextcodesasfemininecomfort. Itisoneofimpervious substance, resistant to any penetration that would allow a communal transference between things. Objectsservetoreflectthemselvesintotheexternalworld. Fromthesereflections an object builds a relational dependency and interconnection, which, as it arises out of its ownidentity,doesnotbreachthewallsofitsintegrity. Theseshadowsaretheunreal projections o f being in a world where they can have little actual connection with the putative physical substance o f the rocks and trees from which they are formed. Yet they havedefiniteform,whichis,however,self-createdamomentbefore. Shadowcanstand
for mind because it has an ontological claim on us and is generated from the quantifiable interactions of rock and sun, and yet exists only as an absence, a hole in the light, a seemingly substanceless quality.
Only There is shadow under this rock,
(Come in under the shadow ofthis 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;
Man has become a sundial, where he stands in the center, himself unchanging, surrounded by the shadowy manifestations o f time ("each in his prison"). Shadows generated through the interaction o f identity and time oppose, or are at least fundamentally different from
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images cast by the non-regenerative identities ofrock. Eliot will not speak ofthis temporal process. The voice in The Waste Land rejects the beginning and end, the points oftransformation. He is interested in the gap between these moments as a paralytic moment o f incomplete transition between distinct states o f being.
Withinthisparalyticgap,anT despairsofeverreconstructingthere-creative relationshipbetweenidentities. T-despairarisesfromone'sowncontainmentwithinthis fragmented world. The metaphysical fragmentation ofthe world creates, or mirrors, the emotional separation between people caught in such a world (what kind? ):
I will show you fear in a handful o f dust.
Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu
Mein Irisch Kind\
Wo weilest du?
With hysteria and opera, the lack o f women amidst rocks and water, returning to the earlier voices and the failure to construct or retain or protect the social, the only ethics available here is the identification o f oneself with the despair o f loss.
A lover separated from his or her beloved (but the status o f women is partly what is questioned by a metaphysics constructed through such a personal grouse; this does not mean one can make psychological claims on the basis o f a derived metaphysics o f identity. Calling it logocentric and patriarchal do their work as allegories, as further metaphysics, not inappropriate when one gives a different kind of content to a higher level symbolism, buthereitisthemetaphysicalstatusof'women'thatisatstake. Notare'women'good?
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but are they real? an anxiety that the quiddity o f humanness that is under assault by the world, or at least in Eliot's mind, cannot be separated from a version of our form of life at thesociallevel. Thisisafterallapoembuiltoutofvegetativemythsofrebirth. Buthow can one generate caring, concern, values of any sort from things? Or from fear in a handful o f dust? This is human fear attending the 'dust' in 'dust to dust', to be cast onto our grave, as that from which we were made and as that out of which we were made: our fear.
I am on the edge of a further turn into the operatic. The Waste Land requires 'our' operatic participation in responding or rather accepting the burden o f the poem's pronouns as 'ours'. (What in the poem is an aria and what a recitative? Are such distinctions stable within the poem? ). The Waste Land and opera move toward the same limits (under philosophical pressure opera asks about the ontological claim such singing
might have on us; a literary form of such a question would ask how can or do or should we become this 'us' [who would the 'we' be? ]).
Toward what limits does opera approach? Opera can be configured, at least, around three different limits: between singing and speaking (as in Schoenberg's Moses und Aron, within a musical totality describing the world, God, or being human), between desire and sense (as in Mozart's Don Giovanni), and between the mechanical, often understood as the music itself and the human, let's say the expressive (as in Offenbach's TalesofHoffmann). Alloftheselimitsareunderstood,withinopera,asthreatening
death. What kind of death and for whom? Catherine Clement's describes how we, as male and female, approach this limit:
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This is how opera reveals its peculiar function: to seduce like possums, by means of aesthetic pleasure, and to show, by means of music's seduction (making one forget the essential), how women die--without anyone thinking, as long as the marvelous voice is singing, to wonder why. (iOpera, 59)
If this is true, then music's pleasure is that it offers ajustification (for death, or killing, or singing) as a ground (or a distraction: are these the same? ). Justification is structured as an organized forgetting and remembering enacted through identification and distancing (entering into the grammar ofthe music through allegorizing one's relationship to the characters/ singers in the opera). Gregory Nagy, in his discussion of how Archaic Greek lyric oral poetry constructed the rhetorical forms for poetry, epic, and history, discovers this same structure in the linguistic relation between mnemosune and lethe:
As Detienne points out, lethe is not only the opposite of mnemosune 'remembering': it can also be an aspect o f mnemosune. For example, the goddess Mnemosune is described in the Theogony of Hesiod as giving birth to the Muses, divine personifications of the poet's power, so that they, through their poetry, may provide lesmosune 'forgetting' of sadness and of worries for humankind (53-55); whoever hears the Muses no longer memnetai 'remembers' his own ills (Theogony 98-103). (53)
This is, of course, one way of understanding how the fragments and allusions work in The WasteLand. Areader'srecognitionorunderstandingofalineorallusion(evenifthis
means only 'this is a conversation; or 'this is a wife') and ignorance of or confusion about a line is structured as a remembering and a forgetting, collapsing, as in opera, justification
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into the grounding logic of the aesthetics (of our reading the lines as poetry). It is unclear, however, how I can allegorize myselfin relation to the poem, and, therefore, it is unclear what is being justified.
The Waste Land consists of operatic gestures. What counts as a gesture within The Waste Landl A fragment, an allusion, a quote, a glimpse, a name. Because no conversation, action, event or reference has anything approaching narrative completeness or contextual clarity, every passage can do no more than gesture toward its completion of relevance or meaning. A gesture, therefore, becomes an interpretive conclusion. Can I
recognize a gesture if I cannot attach the putative gesture to a body, face, or a mind? These gestures are versions ofHeideggerian 'weilen' and are understood within the poem togeneratelanguage. Isthisanordinarygestureofawomanortheoperaticgestureofa diva? :
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still. (Ins. 108-110)
Gestures occur at moments (or at the nexus) of incommensurable inputs, systems, or domains (worlds). Gestures of this sort are not language but determine the contextual limitswithinwhichlanguagewillmakesense. Theymarkthelimitsofourinhabitationof language and the world, and thus show the boundaries o f something analogous to the Tractarian metaphysical T . In saying this, however, I do not mean to put forward a theory about language and gesture or about this metaphysical T . My goal is rather to navigate
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within the site o f incommensurable language games (The W aste Land) in relation to the kinds oflimits articulated inPhilosophicalInvestigations andFinnegans Wake.
This operatic stance (in and towards The W aste Land) if attached not to Eliot but to the intelligence or horror or disgust or seduction of his poetry, is what Kierkegaard, vertriloquizing as the aesthetically motivated A in Either/Or, describes as his love of Mozart:
Immortal Mozart! You to whom I owe everything--to whom I owe that I lost my mind, that my soul was astounded, that I was terrified at the core o f my being--you to whom I owe that I did not go through life without encountering something that could shake me, you whom I thank because I did not die without having loved. (49)
This is one way o f describing the limit towards which opera approaches. A loss o f mind precipitates an astonishment of soul. The beloved is that which terrifies A as if it were death. But this terror is exemplified and expressed through a ridiculous and impossible list ofconquests(inDonGiovanni)andbysinginghumanrelationshipsintononsense. Opera turns the Romantic sublime, which might make us feel ridiculous, into the ridiculous (by this I mean the opera, or the nonsense of The Waste Land). To lose that which causes A to lose his mind "would demolish the one pillar that until now has prevented everything from collapsing for me into a dreadful nothing" (49). Living at this limit between living and dying, insanity o f mind and clarity or expressiveness o f soul, in other words to risk death, preserves A's humanity or the fact of his being anything (which of course he is not! ).
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Don Giovanni's desire exposes this essence, or constructs this essence as the meansbywhichmenrecognizethebodiesofwomen. ButDonGiovanni'sdesire,as sensuous desire, can construct only the external form of femininity, as if women had no insides, no subjectivity, no soul. It is through this failure that the souls o f 'women' are created. The opera "The Tales ofHoffmann", however, is structured around the acceptanceofthelimitsofsensuousdesire. Itthenasks,ifwemakethiswoman,makea Woman (Stella, the poet Hoffmann's "real" love) out ofthree women (his fictional loves), like constructing a copy o f our beloved out o f bits o f pictures o f many different women, do we have a woman, or merely a clever simulation?
Nicklausse explains, at the end of "The Tales of Hoffmann", that the three woman Hoffmann has loved, that the three stories he has told (and for us, the audience, enacted, embodied, imagined, displayed, and sung in his own voice as well as in those o f the women and men involved, although of course all these parts were not sung by our Hoffmann), are fictitious and used to describe one woman: Stella. This does not make a lot of sense. Stella seems to actually like our Hero enough to send him the key to her dressing room. Do we listen and watch this opera and ask: What does Hoffmann want of Stella? or What does Hoffmann think love is? The structure o f the opera masks these questions behind its solution ofthe identity of Stella. She can be divided into three parts: young girl, courtesan, and artist. She can be divided, exposed, and most importantly reducedtotheseparts. TheoperaisnotaboutHoffmann'sloveorevenhisfailures. Instead it asks and pretends to answer what makes a woman something to desire? What is a woman such that she is a being that can be desired? and thus How can 'we' construct a
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woman such that 'we' can desire her or become her? Opera continually asks this question, not simply because o f patriarchal politics (although this is important), but because it is not at all obvious how one can desire another being which one recognizes as not oneselfj and thus as something that cannot be known with any certainty, which I take to mean to know as another mind. How can one define oneself as a being existing within the internal space o f the mind, as a subject, as if one identified oneself by content, love and desire that which remains a form? It is not so simple to say that men treat women as objects. That is only true if one uses "object" as a metaphor. In opera, women are desired because it is impossible for men to love them as objects. Would anyone love a rock, a bit o f ground unless it was more than an object, personified somehow, entrapped within a system of values in which it functions as an extension of someone's identity within some particular grammar or social context?
Thejob of "The Tales ofHoffmann" is to make a man's mind into a woman's, and failing that to make a man's mind into the body of a woman. The body of the opera appears to be a story about three of Hoffmann's love affairs. We enter into his imaginative world,intowhatpurportstobehismemoriesandthusintohismind. Thesehistories, however, do not recapture or recapitulate the past. In the melodrama o f opera, the identity o f the beloved is described by a mythic history (organized around desire, generic forms and social types, social power, and so on). This identity in opera is determined by its thematic limits, by the possibility o f moving from speech to singing (and back again), from desire to possession, from the inanimate, or the mechanical, to the animate. Kierkegaard asserts that opera, in its enactment o f the musical, does not describe the
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achievement o f consciousness (which would require language, not opera).
Thus the "immediate-erotic stage" constituting music (as demonstrated in its exemplar, Mozart) "must not be thought o f as persons on different levels with respect to consciousness; at all times I am dealing only with the immediate in its total immediacy" (Either/Or 1. 74). Musicdescribesthelimitbetweentimeandsense(ornonsenseifyouwant). ThisIthink
justifies Kierkegaard (or A) in situating the dialectic of opera and music before or outside ofthe Hegelian figuration of human thinking (or being) as grounded and always taking place through consciousness. Hegel pictures human beings, as did Descartes, as defined by their consciousness, whereas Kierkegaard wants to re-posit the soul, not as having any particular content, but as constituting our stance toward ourselves though our interactions
with others (such a stance might in certain moments be defined as being conscious or self- conscious). This concern transplanted from "Don Giovanni" to "The Tales ofHoffmann" could take the form of the question 'Is the identity of this woman a mind of a soul? "
This is a question that merges into both the articulation o f the subjunctive possibilities shadowing the despair of The Waste Land and the fragmentation and death that threaten it. It is one ofthe ironies ofthe poem, that the epigraph makes this fragmentation the object o f desire and the subjunctive a motive for horror. How do you reach death? Or how do you know you are dead?
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living or dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart o f light, the silence,
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Oed' und leer das Meer.
You might not be living or dead if beauty faced you as memory built as a Grecian urn, even if later you assume that "only by", what the Four Quartets calls, "the form, the pattern,/ Can words reach The stillness, as a Chinesejar still/ Moves perpetually in its stillness", and "thou art desolate, can e'er return. " Statue-like you "could not speak", nor see, nor know anything. ' "[Mjarble men and maidens overwrought" into silence empty
their heads, like the little town Keats describes, turning themselves into jugs by becoming the void and that void filled by "Oed' und leer das Meer" (Desolate and empty sea).
We bury the dead to keep them out of our world. How can one be neither living nor dead? Is this third state made visible in "The Burial of the Dead" the patience or the dying discovered in the speaking o f the thunder? Light has no heart to see. But such looking drags the markers of space (light) and time (sound) into a synesthesiac succession of dimensions: the heart of light is silence, and when the light fades, when the electric circuit between clouds and earth cycles to completion, the heart o f darkness might be the soundofthunder. Icanonlylookintosilenceifmymindbuildssoundanditsabsenceinto a visible universe. The confusion between seeing and hearing, while logical nonsense, mimics being neither living or dead. How can such confusion determine a mind as a mind? A human from an animal or a thing? Through love one can become a voided world oneself and lose the beloved as a mirror o f ones own desolation.
The sound reverberates against the rocks and slopes o f the wasteland. The sound is an echo, not of or with the reality of spring, but with the imprint of spring's force, an extension of spring; an intangible manifestation from the past to the present: sensory
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phantasms, as Aquinas would call them, auditory shadows whose form, source, referent exists as both some lost originary sound and as the causes ofthose sounds. In The Waste
Land, this thunder, as it foretells that which never comes, becomes an ironic exposure of the land's dryness, a travesty o f hope. Language has changed here. The modeling o f the world and o f a social relations, by dolphins and chimpanzees as well as by humans, allows us to predict behavior, to plan and negotiate within the complex social world all ofthese species function within. It gives us the ability to lie and trick. We might ask, "what does the thunder mean? " The answer might be, "It means it will rain"; or "It follows lightening'" or "God spoke. " In every case the meaning of the sound is its cause, understood synecdochially when raining; understood metaphorically if God speaks. The thunder in "What The Thunder Said" does not invoke any of these, nor can it mean or predict these; no God speaks, no rain falls, no lightening nor no physics orders the ontological universe of the poem. The thunder foretells its own primacy; it foreshadows its continued sounding, marking this world as always before the rain, the lightening and God.
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain.
This intangible reverberation oflife arises again two stanzas later:
Who is the third who walks beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another beside you
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Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman --But who is that on the other side o f you?
"Whoisthethird. . . "seemstoaskforidentification. Butthe'I'isaskingifthethird,this X exists. It is always possible that the person "wrapt in a brown mantle" if not o f one's own party, race, group, and so on, may not be recognized as a person. The temptations of psychosis stand before us like religious visions o f Christ. Who one is collapses into that one is. The questioning here, and the temptation to psychosis it dramatizes collapses the distinction between essence and existence that allowed Aquinas to construct identities withinasimultaneousaxiologicalandontologicalscaleleadingtoGod. Accordingto
Eliot, these lines were "stimulated by the account o f the Antarctic expeditions," casting them as a form o f psychosis generated by the landscape. This is the loss o f a human world and its replacement by our mind writing out o f our control onto desolation. This story o f seeing three as a fantasy in snow ironizes Christ's resurrected journey with two o f his disciples, after he had been crucified and entombed. Christ, as the hooded hangman, the Fisher King, suggests the spiritual incarnation o f the "white road" through The W aste Land. This road is the transitive link between death and rebirth figured as the theological or psychotic functioning of our mind. This does not mean either story should or can be dismissed or therapized into sense. Nor does it offer itself as a psychosis replacing our common experience.
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9. 3 Thevisibilityofthesubjunctive
In the next stanza Eliot unites the image ofthe "reverberation ofthunder ofspring" with Christ as the reverberation o f spirit, but through a shift in perspective back into human life, into the process of dying:
What is that sound high in the air
Murmur o f maternal lamentation
Who are those hooded hordes swarming
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only
Maryliesbeneaththecrosscryingin"lamentation"forherson. Hissacrificenomatter what hope o f resurrection it will bring, must always be a loss to her. And this loss and this cry must be spoken for all those dying in The Waste Land, and for the Great Mother Earth itself. This cry blends with the reverberation of spring and thus it is tied to the maternal womb of the river and the sea, from which The Waste Land must be recreated.
Eliot transposes the sound of spring, the imagined force of water, and the maternal lamentation into a woman in The Waste Land. She is an artist, who creates through her own body, as does Phlebas, and even the red rock:
A woman drew her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
In a line of dissolution is this woman playing Nero as "they" all drown? 3 The strands of her hair suggest the currents of the sea and the streams of a river rushing over rock. The strands o f her hair recall the maternal Thames and the sea currents picking Phlebas' bones.
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These strands ofboth water and hair reverberate through her creative will, and become music;shecreatesanaestheticanddynamicexpressionofcreatedbeauty. Withinthis music, however, there whistles a parody of creation; bats masked or deformed with baby faces. Is this music akin to the words generated from the hair?
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still. (Ins. 108-109)
Firelight and fiery points animate language, savagely. This is the Sibyl again, speaking the Heraclitian logos in "The Fire Sermon":
When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about the room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone.
(Ins. 253-56)
A woman brushing her hair returns to make music or language with a gramophone. She is, however, no longer even an electro-static transmitter, but an automaton interpreting and expressing her folly (her passions) through mechanically reproduced performances. This doesnotmakeherapriestinterpretingherownwords(asanoracle). Thismusicexists only as a comment o f someone else, marked by another indefinite pronoun: "This music crept by me upon the waters" (ln. 257). Who hears the music? Is it the same music? Again this line could be a part o f a causal chain linking fragments: the woman put on the record
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causing someone (a 'me') to hear the music speak. The music itself has dropped out, except as a figure (as in Finnegans Wake an intentional limit) we follow as it continues "along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street" (ln. 258). These women-with-hair are indistinguishable from a single woman or the idea o f 'women'.
What proceeds from these strings sounds another "and". The silence ofbat speech does not prevent our mammalian recognition of our baby-selves in their faces, not in sound but in violet light. Bats follow like sound the fiddling o f hair, displayed in its beauty, an already dead part o f a woman's still living body. These bats parody music, poetry, the created. Such a parody forms these shifting aspects o f waste land fragments as the world itself. The poetic structure describing the change from line to line, and the symbolic ordering of this shift, constitutes an oscillation between a domain of space and a domain of sound or time:
A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out o f empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
We can mark these ABABAABB: 'A' marks a spatial domain and 'B' a sound/time domain. Even in "A women d r e w . . . " the action o f drawing her hair puns into a line-
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drawing, something like a Degas pastel describing the woman and the world around the axis o f this drawn out hair, the hair drawn for us here in these lines. In the next line "[FJiddled whisper music" acts 'on' those strings, sounding against the lines o f the previous line. We do not understand what music on those strings can mean but for the never visible movement ofthe woman. The causal force ofthe woman drawing her hair disappears in the ambiguity of"drew' and the tension of"hair out tight". She becomes a musician after she makes her music: what was she before? This is a way of asking what realm of potentiality is articulated in The Waste Land: the potential for meaning, for entering into the world as a person with an identity stabilized beyond the confusion of
pronoun reference in the poem?
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wings
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out o f empty cisterns and exhausted wells
This recognition in the light of our phylogenesis, of our common ancestry, suddenly finds volume in our whispered music becoming whistled and the fiddled sounds on this human hairbecomingbeatingwings. Whisperingpromisessomesecretsandthreatensthe dissolution o f the whispered sea currents against Phlebas' bones.
This devolution of sound through our kinship with these bats (are they representations of our words? or of the pre-reflexive soul Stephen Daedulas rendered from
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astorytomatchhischanging: "abat-likesoulwakingtotheconsciousnessofitselfin darkness and secrecy and loneliness . . [Portrait, 183]? ) follows down, away from the light but further into space, repeated in the next line by the inversion o f towers. The incommensurability or the synesthesiac collapse of sound and time into space can easily describe how we inhabit an 'I' in 'a world,' or find ourselves organized as if we were a world. The problem ofwhat this sound mean, just as the problem of what the thunder said and meant, lies as much in us as it does in the sound or towers. Aristotle animated Plato's mythic cave metaphor ofthe relation between truth and appearance, between 'I' and 'world' by analogizing the problem into the biology ofthose bat denizens ofthe cave:
Therefore, since the truth seems to be like the proverbial door, which no one can fail to hit in this respect it must be easy, but the fact that we can have a whole truth and not the particular part we aim at show the difficulty o f it. Perhaps, too, as difficulties are oftwo kinds, the cause ofthis difficulty is not in the matter or facts (Ttpayiiacnv) but in us; for as the eyes of bats are to blaze of day, so is
the mind of our soul to things which are by nature most manifest of all.
(M? /. 993b9-ll)
The eyes of bats are like the "mind of our soul. " Light is like the ordinary or like things. The Waste Land is not a world of light, but consists of sketches of the world arranged to make visible the soul dying or waiting. It brings out the soul, sharpens our hearing o f the voice as the mark of humanity and not the face. Bats in this poetic darkness do not see anything. They whistle, crawl, and beat their wings. A bat-soul moves down, paralleling the upside down towers, inverted caves inverted down. We imagine bat-baby-faces, but
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their moving bodies would have disappeared against the "blackened wall. " The bat-soul becomes a sinister ciying. What is the relation between the soul and the world? Eliot answers here with 'what is the relation between the bat and the missing light, symbolic sense, darkness, sound, the towers, bells? Our poetic meta-eyes can see this bat and these towers and hear these sounds, just as a bat could see itselfwith its bat-eyes in such a darkness. Thesubstanceofthebellsdissolvesintoreminiscenceandthetowersinto soundandtime,clockingtheirinversionintothevoid. Inthelastlinethevoicessinging like the fiddled whisper music acts upon the substance of the world, this substance here being empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
In the following stanza, the alteration between lines is compressed into an alterationwithinlines,agreaterproximitypromisingresolution. Theorderofthedialectic is less rigid, but still structuring a kind o f poetic meta-change as an opposition between space and sound, primary change. A decayed hole among mountains; moonlight followed by singing grass; an empty chapel as the wind's home; no windows and a swinging door (movement). These oppositions are punctuated by tumbled graves, and after the swinging door by dry bones and a standing cock on the rooftop. The sound o f the cock's species nameistakenupimmediatelyfollowinginarepresentationofhissoundingcall: Coco rico co co rico. The bones we are told will harm no one. This is an answer to the fear in a handfulofdust,areplytoourowninternalshakinginthisgraveyard. Safetyresidesin stasis, and if the world still reminisces in its toiling of the time, and the cock warns of the coming day, this time is time past, and the day is "a flash of lightening. " But we do not
glimpse the world. The lightening is a substanceless line o f energy, the animal sounding a
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mock pre-thunder, that like the inverted towers simply clocks a moment without illuminatingtheworld. Thislighteningisfollowed"then,"inoneofthefewcasesofa temporal designation o f order in this section o f the poem, with a damp gust; faint moonlight, the grass singing o f line 386 intensifies into lightening and the then into a damp gust. But a damp gust is no longer a song, and the promised meaning o f lightening and
the wind "bringing rain" never occurs. The language o f nature, the signs o f the weather do not answer our need. We are left waiting with the limp leaves (Ins. 394-5) "for rain. "
What kind oftime is kept here? Keeping something like time is keeping a void, and our living becomes avoiding voids, turning these seeming gaps between moments, in a certain logic, the 'contra' in 'contradiction,' into identity. But such a stability is not continuing if it removes change, by a turning into objecthood. 'Avoiding,' like berrying, means a kind of skipping past the pits of change, inverting as Eliot has these towers so that they become cisterns. But again the effect is backward. We need to turn cisterns into
towers, our avoiding becoming like a voiding we will go. How do I void a void? Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours. Sound and time without a cause and without changes in the present. This tolling is the same over and over, a tolling the limit between now and the past, or experience and memory. Here the tolling, following a world- collapsing-synesthesia, accompanies the voiding o f height and the loss o f ground; a set o f clock hands stuck on six o'clock, not twelve, translating space into sound. The word is not, however, reanimated by memory; but a subjunctive interaction in an ABAB dialectic between spatial and temporal symbolic ontologies temporalizes possibility into parody. Such a temporalization transplants our expectations from the world into language.
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Wittgenstein remarks, "It is in language that an expectation and its fulfillment make contact" (PI, ? 455). Hope is human:
One can imagine an animal angry, frightened, unhappy, happy startled. But hopeful? And whynot?
A dog believes his master is at the door, but can he also believe his master will come the day after tomorrow? --And what can he not do here? -How am I supposed to answer this?
Can only those hope who can talk? Only those who have mastered the use o f language. That is to say, the phenomena of hope are modes of this complicated form of life (If a concept refers to a character of human handwriting, it has no application to beings that do not write. )
(PI, p. 174)
What about language, or poetic language, that engenders hope as a possibility o f being human? This asks how as human beings do we inhabit the temporal possibilities of language without losing the world, more specifically in The Waste Land, without losing the physics ofthunder and the irreal visions ofour waking dreams and fictions?
Wittgenstein argues that the intentionality of our language is not attached to the world, but rather intentional statements (I wish that x; I expect y; I have a suspicion about z) are matched by statements that describe their fulfillment, verification, denial, failure, etc. (see ? ? 136, 429, 458).
An order is own execution. " So it knows its execution, then even before it is there? --But that was a grammatical proposition and it means: If an order runs
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"Do such-and-such" then executing the order is called "doing such-and-such".
(PI? 458)
Approaching one kind of poetic voice approaches nonsense, as in Finnegans Wake where (when) the rules or grammar organizing intentionality in our ordinary language are excluded in poetic language such that nothing can satisfy as either a description o f fulfillment (of intentionality) or as an adequate interpretation of truth-value, reference, intentionality, meaning. This changing o f the language into the non-intentional (which is sometimes described as non-functional language) does not dissolve language but redirects intentionalitytowardussuchthatwedescribethefulfillmentoflanguage.