At the end of the last segment, the poet was reconciled, though reluctantly, to the interminable present. Here, he seems to have domiciled until he leaves the dancing days of summer and enters the natural chaos of November—a month that, in semi-temperate England, anything is possible. Summer creatures still thrive, snowdrops not yet risen from their summer deathbeds, late roses that battle with early snow. It is the verdant version of the eternal all-times the poet sang of in Burnt Norton.
This dance of all seasons is not limited to the earth. The stars turn in their courses, fighting to get one last glimpse of the earth they got to see so briefly. Scorpio, a constellation that bespeaks suffering and malaise is ordered by the Sun, the bringer of all-life, to wind his way thither. The pestilence fights and flees the light. The Sun and the Moon in time eclipse each other, and deprived of their light, comets weep as they cannot find either the sky or the plains. “Whirled in a vortex that shall bring / The world to that destructive fire / Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.” The sun rules the stars but it cannot rule the earth. An earth that is still under death sentence—the whirling dance of the stars brings life, but the passage of time only brings the world closer to the day when it shall pass into dust by ice and flame.
I would be remiss if I did not mention at this point that I have not a clue what I am talking about. And, unlike Cicero, I mean it. I am no Eliot scholar, nor particularly well-read. So, I write my thoughts and speculations firmly in the hope that the reader will forgive my inanities and deepen my expositions.
Now, onward to clueless speculations. The second stanza of the poem is to my mind, inscrutable. The poet seems to be unsatisfied with his own words, “A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion, / Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle / With words and meanings.” He’s attempted to expound the mysteries of the universe in poetry and he has failed.
He asks, “What was to be the value of the lone looked forward to, / Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity / And the wisdom of the age?” What is the point of the hoped for future? Of the calm days before the death of winter? Is the lie in the voice of the wisdom, or is the wisdom itself utterly deceived? “Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?”
Eliot seems to spend the next few lines waffling between a despair of the value of all old knowledge and a condemnation of his ability to see it. In the phrase, “At best, only a limited value / In the knowledge derived from experience. / The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies, / For the pattern is new in every moment.” He makes up his mind, he may not be able to grasp, or even trust, eternal truth, but the dance of life moves too quickly to trust more concrete, experience-won knowledge. He speaks again of deceiving, but only to say that the eternal wisdom only undeceives us of that which wasn’t worth knowing.
Yet, in this maze of deceiving and undeceiving, he steps once more into the wood between the worlds, and in that world “On the edge of the grimpen, where is no secure foothold, / And menaced by monsters, fancy lights, / Risking enchantment.” It is in this wood he finds his answer to the conflicts of many wisdoms. The secret is not lost in time, it is not found in experience or in the accomplishments of all sages. Rather, it is found in their folly, and through their folly, their humility.
Unlike all human strengths and musings, “humility is endless.”
When all the houses have fallen to dust, when all the dancers leave the wood, humility is all that remains.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Modesty
There has been a question that has puzzled me for some time.
Why are so many religions so concerned with the behavior, dress, and morals of their women? The only two religions I can speak conclusively about are Islam and Christianity, so I shall stick with those.
In both these religions, women’s behavior, in some ways, define the virtue of the family. Islam sets the rules very strictly. A woman’s dishonor, even a woman’s momentary immodesty leads to the dishonor of her whole family. Because of this, codes for proper feminine behavior are extremely strict: clothes, occupations, speech, nothing escapes the law of order. Reading the Koran, it is easy to see how this set of behaviors came about. Three rules appear to govern the matter: 1) women are much more inclined to sin than men, 2) men are easily led into sin by women, and 3) all hope of heaven rests in one’s good deeds outweighing one’s bad deeds. Given this paradigm, it makes perfect sense that father’s and husbands guard their women’s dress and behavior ceaselessly lest a moment’s inattention damns both their daughter’s soul and the souls of the men around them. The best of the Muslim community insists on the modesty and proper behavior of their women for their own protection, honor, and care.
The best of the Christian emphasis on women’s behavior—specifically dress and modesty, I believe shares similar sentiments. Fathers love their daughters and want to spare them the humiliation of being ogled or thought little of. Yet, this simple assumption of fatherly concern does not explain the constant parade of sermons, books, articles, and even dire warnings about the never-ceasing importance of a lady’s modesty. In fact, the only Scripture that readily comments on the issue is fairly innocuous and merely forbids obvious signs of intemperance or (in context) lewd lifestyle. 1 Timothy 2:9-10 says, “Likewise also that women should adorn themselves in respectable apparel, with modesty and self-control, not with braided hair and gold or pearls or costly attire, but what is proper for women who profess godliness—with good works.” Even the model of all godly womanhood, the Proverbs 31 woman has no great mention made of her modesty. Rather it says she is clothed in strength and that all her household is garbed in the finest quality.
So, if the Scripture is vague—forbidding only extravagant or obviously lewd apparel, seeming even to commend a woman who can wear quality garments, why the sovereign importance laid on the issue in Christian circles? Especially evangelical ones?
I believe there are two primary reasons.
First, Protestantism in general and the Evangelical movement in particular are reactionary churches. They see a problem in the presiding church and community and take the opposite road. In the old Baptist movement, this meant a refusal to partake in things like alcohol, dancing, smoking, or cards. In the newer Evangelical movement, it has led to an emphasis on political action, specifically defending conservative values. This success in the political realm, depends, in large scale, in proving that it works. Conservative marriage, godly education, pro-life lifestyle, all these must be proved to function not only well, but better than the prevailing opinion. All of these functions depend largely on women: they must marry sensibly and for life, they must be prepared to raise up their children godly and conservative, and they must not sleep around or especially get pregnant, if they do, they must responsibly raise these children as well. In all, Christian daughters are the showcase on which the whole depends.
Second, it is a sexually promiscuous and dangerous age. There are countless ways for even the most innocent young woman to run into trouble. Children, boys and girls, are reaching sexual maturity younger and younger. Yet, with the evangelical emphasis on responsible, godly, and model marriage Christian youth are being required to delay marriage, and therefore, sexual gratification, longer and longer. Therefore, to keep all sexual purity and to further the cause of making the proper godly society, it is imperative that women do nothing to further provocate the already much worn masculine population. The Cause of righteousness and a good society are much too important to risk trusting the youth to behave morally when Christian and Secular society collude to make it as difficult as possible—keeping sexual images and acts always before young people’s minds while simultaneously telling them that for one sensible and moral reason or another that they may not marry.
De Tocqueville best summarizes the entire question. Tocqueville makes the case that women are primarily ruled by good principles, and as such, they are the ones that make the mores (or demeanor and attitude) of the culture. Women make order, and from that order comes prosperity. Conservatives realize this fact and therefore attempt to train their young women assiduously.
Yet, it should be noted, that Tocqueville says the greatest strength of American women is not that they are so strictly reared and guarded, but they that are taught to love virtue and live prudently for its own sake. Along with this, they are taught about the dangers of the world so that they are equipped to navigate it sensibly.
Christians, especially the conservative movement, highlights women’s modesty because they cannot complete their model of holiness or their mission for the culture. They have astutely realized De Tocqueville’s principle: women shape the mores. If Christianity can train their women thoroughly in their ideal model, they will eventually win. Therefore, Christians stress modesty far beyond any biblical backing for their interest.
Why are so many religions so concerned with the behavior, dress, and morals of their women? The only two religions I can speak conclusively about are Islam and Christianity, so I shall stick with those.
In both these religions, women’s behavior, in some ways, define the virtue of the family. Islam sets the rules very strictly. A woman’s dishonor, even a woman’s momentary immodesty leads to the dishonor of her whole family. Because of this, codes for proper feminine behavior are extremely strict: clothes, occupations, speech, nothing escapes the law of order. Reading the Koran, it is easy to see how this set of behaviors came about. Three rules appear to govern the matter: 1) women are much more inclined to sin than men, 2) men are easily led into sin by women, and 3) all hope of heaven rests in one’s good deeds outweighing one’s bad deeds. Given this paradigm, it makes perfect sense that father’s and husbands guard their women’s dress and behavior ceaselessly lest a moment’s inattention damns both their daughter’s soul and the souls of the men around them. The best of the Muslim community insists on the modesty and proper behavior of their women for their own protection, honor, and care.
The best of the Christian emphasis on women’s behavior—specifically dress and modesty, I believe shares similar sentiments. Fathers love their daughters and want to spare them the humiliation of being ogled or thought little of. Yet, this simple assumption of fatherly concern does not explain the constant parade of sermons, books, articles, and even dire warnings about the never-ceasing importance of a lady’s modesty. In fact, the only Scripture that readily comments on the issue is fairly innocuous and merely forbids obvious signs of intemperance or (in context) lewd lifestyle. 1 Timothy 2:9-10 says, “Likewise also that women should adorn themselves in respectable apparel, with modesty and self-control, not with braided hair and gold or pearls or costly attire, but what is proper for women who profess godliness—with good works.” Even the model of all godly womanhood, the Proverbs 31 woman has no great mention made of her modesty. Rather it says she is clothed in strength and that all her household is garbed in the finest quality.
So, if the Scripture is vague—forbidding only extravagant or obviously lewd apparel, seeming even to commend a woman who can wear quality garments, why the sovereign importance laid on the issue in Christian circles? Especially evangelical ones?
I believe there are two primary reasons.
First, Protestantism in general and the Evangelical movement in particular are reactionary churches. They see a problem in the presiding church and community and take the opposite road. In the old Baptist movement, this meant a refusal to partake in things like alcohol, dancing, smoking, or cards. In the newer Evangelical movement, it has led to an emphasis on political action, specifically defending conservative values. This success in the political realm, depends, in large scale, in proving that it works. Conservative marriage, godly education, pro-life lifestyle, all these must be proved to function not only well, but better than the prevailing opinion. All of these functions depend largely on women: they must marry sensibly and for life, they must be prepared to raise up their children godly and conservative, and they must not sleep around or especially get pregnant, if they do, they must responsibly raise these children as well. In all, Christian daughters are the showcase on which the whole depends.
Second, it is a sexually promiscuous and dangerous age. There are countless ways for even the most innocent young woman to run into trouble. Children, boys and girls, are reaching sexual maturity younger and younger. Yet, with the evangelical emphasis on responsible, godly, and model marriage Christian youth are being required to delay marriage, and therefore, sexual gratification, longer and longer. Therefore, to keep all sexual purity and to further the cause of making the proper godly society, it is imperative that women do nothing to further provocate the already much worn masculine population. The Cause of righteousness and a good society are much too important to risk trusting the youth to behave morally when Christian and Secular society collude to make it as difficult as possible—keeping sexual images and acts always before young people’s minds while simultaneously telling them that for one sensible and moral reason or another that they may not marry.
De Tocqueville best summarizes the entire question. Tocqueville makes the case that women are primarily ruled by good principles, and as such, they are the ones that make the mores (or demeanor and attitude) of the culture. Women make order, and from that order comes prosperity. Conservatives realize this fact and therefore attempt to train their young women assiduously.
Yet, it should be noted, that Tocqueville says the greatest strength of American women is not that they are so strictly reared and guarded, but they that are taught to love virtue and live prudently for its own sake. Along with this, they are taught about the dangers of the world so that they are equipped to navigate it sensibly.
Christians, especially the conservative movement, highlights women’s modesty because they cannot complete their model of holiness or their mission for the culture. They have astutely realized De Tocqueville’s principle: women shape the mores. If Christianity can train their women thoroughly in their ideal model, they will eventually win. Therefore, Christians stress modesty far beyond any biblical backing for their interest.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
East Coker -- II
II
What is the late November doing
With the disturbance of the spring
And creatures of the summer heat,
And snowdrops writhing under feet
And hollyhocks that aim too high
Red into grey and tumble down
Late roses filled with early snow?
Thunder rolled by the rolling stars
Simulates triumphal cars
Deployed in constellated wars
Scorpion fights against the Sun
Until the Sun and Moon go down
Comets weep and Leonids fly
Hunt the heavens and the plains
Whirled in a vortex that shall bring
The world to that destructive fire
Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.
That was a way of putting it - not very satisfactory:
A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion,
Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle
With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter.
It was not (to start again) what one had expected.
What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity
And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us,
Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders,
Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?
The serenity only a deliberate hebetude,
The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets
Useless in the darkness into which they peered
Or from which they turned their eyes. There is, it seems to us,
At best, only a limited value
In the knowledge derived from experience.
The knowledge inposes a pattern, and falsifies,
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived
Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm.
In the middle, not only in the middle of the way
but all the way, in a dark wood, in a bramble,
On the edge of a grimpen, where is no secure foothold,
And menaced by monsters, fancy lights,
Risking enchantment. Do not let me hear
Of the wisdom of old men, but rahter of their folly,
Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,
Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.
The houses are all gone under the sea.
The dancers are all gone under the hill.
What is the late November doing
With the disturbance of the spring
And creatures of the summer heat,
And snowdrops writhing under feet
And hollyhocks that aim too high
Red into grey and tumble down
Late roses filled with early snow?
Thunder rolled by the rolling stars
Simulates triumphal cars
Deployed in constellated wars
Scorpion fights against the Sun
Until the Sun and Moon go down
Comets weep and Leonids fly
Hunt the heavens and the plains
Whirled in a vortex that shall bring
The world to that destructive fire
Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.
That was a way of putting it - not very satisfactory:
A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion,
Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle
With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter.
It was not (to start again) what one had expected.
What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity
And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us,
Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders,
Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?
The serenity only a deliberate hebetude,
The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets
Useless in the darkness into which they peered
Or from which they turned their eyes. There is, it seems to us,
At best, only a limited value
In the knowledge derived from experience.
The knowledge inposes a pattern, and falsifies,
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived
Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm.
In the middle, not only in the middle of the way
but all the way, in a dark wood, in a bramble,
On the edge of a grimpen, where is no secure foothold,
And menaced by monsters, fancy lights,
Risking enchantment. Do not let me hear
Of the wisdom of old men, but rahter of their folly,
Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,
Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.
The houses are all gone under the sea.
The dancers are all gone under the hill.
Monday, January 4, 2010
East Coker I -- text
I
In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.
In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
Across the open field, leaving the deep lane
Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
And the deep lane insists on the direction
Into the village, in the electric heat
Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sultry light
Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone.
The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
Wait for the early owl.
In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
The association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie—
A dignified and commodiois sacrament.
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations
The time of milking and the time of harvest
The time of the coupling of man and woman
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.
Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.
In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.
In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
Across the open field, leaving the deep lane
Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
And the deep lane insists on the direction
Into the village, in the electric heat
Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sultry light
Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone.
The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
Wait for the early owl.
In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
The association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie—
A dignified and commodiois sacrament.
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations
The time of milking and the time of harvest
The time of the coupling of man and woman
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.
Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.
East Coker I -- Marriage and the Mystery
At the end of Burnt Norton, Eliot binds past, present, and future into one glorious Present. Yet, in the beginning of East Coker, he seems to reach a spiritual crisis—in sum, as he reconciles himself to a beginning he sees it as a death sentence. “In my beginning is my end” is the poet’s first cry, and from there he dissects the entire material world into their unbeautiful base elements.
It is a dismal picture—houses, homes, even in their genesis are reduced to dust. Old stone bows to the recycling of time and become earth, and all is reduced to “flesh, fur, and faeces.” He ends the first stanza in a depressed recitation of Ecclesiastes:
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And a time to shake the wainscot where the field mouse trots
And the shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto
It’s not pretty.
Yet, in the midst of this dim reflection on the ultimate death of all things the author has not given up hope. He faces this specter of death and works methodically towards the jobs and joys of this doomed moment. First, by breaking himself loose from the present vision he allows himself to once more hear the music of the spheres. “If you do not come to close, / On a summer midnight, you can hear the music / Of the weak pipe and the little drum.”
This music leads him to one of the most, arguably the most important human duty to the present life, “dancing around the bonfire, / The association of man and woman / in dausinge, signifying matrimonie-- / a dignified and commodious sacrament.” It is interesting to note that Eliot chose to refer to the ancient rite of marriage through the words of Edmund Spenser...a poet who in his Faerie Queen made it a point to ally the human dance of man and wife with the heavenly dance of Christ and Church. In “this two and two, necessarye coniunction,” Eliot sees both the hope for the present and the point of the future. United in earth, we live to be united with Christ. We unite in earth to show us how to unite in Christ.
This concord is born of the greatest of all celestial delights, yet is spun of the lowliest of earthly joys. Rustic joys: clumsy dancing and good earth, keeping the time and tasks of the seasons. Only here, does the author acquire the proper Ecclesiastical spirit where there is “the time of the seasons and the constellations / the time of milking and the time of harvest.”
In the single day of existence, he realizes there is always the hope of the new dawn. There is a preparation for the end, but even as he faces wrinkles and old age, Eliot says, “I am here / Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.”
It is a dismal picture—houses, homes, even in their genesis are reduced to dust. Old stone bows to the recycling of time and become earth, and all is reduced to “flesh, fur, and faeces.” He ends the first stanza in a depressed recitation of Ecclesiastes:
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And a time to shake the wainscot where the field mouse trots
And the shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto
It’s not pretty.
Yet, in the midst of this dim reflection on the ultimate death of all things the author has not given up hope. He faces this specter of death and works methodically towards the jobs and joys of this doomed moment. First, by breaking himself loose from the present vision he allows himself to once more hear the music of the spheres. “If you do not come to close, / On a summer midnight, you can hear the music / Of the weak pipe and the little drum.”
This music leads him to one of the most, arguably the most important human duty to the present life, “dancing around the bonfire, / The association of man and woman / in dausinge, signifying matrimonie-- / a dignified and commodious sacrament.” It is interesting to note that Eliot chose to refer to the ancient rite of marriage through the words of Edmund Spenser...a poet who in his Faerie Queen made it a point to ally the human dance of man and wife with the heavenly dance of Christ and Church. In “this two and two, necessarye coniunction,” Eliot sees both the hope for the present and the point of the future. United in earth, we live to be united with Christ. We unite in earth to show us how to unite in Christ.
This concord is born of the greatest of all celestial delights, yet is spun of the lowliest of earthly joys. Rustic joys: clumsy dancing and good earth, keeping the time and tasks of the seasons. Only here, does the author acquire the proper Ecclesiastical spirit where there is “the time of the seasons and the constellations / the time of milking and the time of harvest.”
In the single day of existence, he realizes there is always the hope of the new dawn. There is a preparation for the end, but even as he faces wrinkles and old age, Eliot says, “I am here / Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)