APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers...
Every April I am reminded of the T.S. Eliot poem “The Wasteland.” Yes, T.S. Eliot paints a bleak picture. It’s a dark motif, but its heaviness depicts a passive brutality from which you can’t look away.
What is it about Eliot’s pronouncement on life’s futility that seems so strangely compelling? Is it his visual imagery? The dramatic style in which he turns a phrase?
He seems to have the ability to reach right through to our consciousness and slap around at our basic existential fears.
…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…
It’s interesting that Eliot casts such a brooding shadow of nihilism across a season that usually inspires cultures with renewed hope and excitement, as signs of new life begin to emerge in its earliest expressions. Granted, April does offer a rather unique backdrop, in that this new life is merely hinted at. In early April, the landscape is typically dominated by iconic reminders of devastation and loss - in every naked tree or bush; in the moist rich, dark color of any exposed parcels of earthen soil; in the brownish-green turf, barren of weed or wildflower. But for most, this very despondency merely heightens the glorious nature of new life, which stirs heroically and rises amid its vapid environs. This weekend's Easter celebration is a fitting demonstration of the jubilant response to this rebirth.
But Eliot departs sharply from this ethos and burrows deeply into its antithesis. For him, life seems to amount to a cruel span of pointless suffering that has as its end the terror and indignity of death. Life springing from beneath the soil, to suffer and brood, only to return once again in humiliation to the soil of burial.
…Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying 'Stetson!
'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
'That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
'Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
'You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!'…
Imagine we could map being and nothingness into a sort of binary code of existence, and that we could isolate our own link or "snippet" within this linear progression, which then could be expressed in two ways. It could look like this: 101 or like this: 010
Most cultures or major religious doctrines that address our relationship in this progression subscribe to the first model, and hold that "being" leads to "nothingness" leads to "being." Our life (1) on this earth must end (0), but will begin anew (1) in a different form or on another plane. Eliot seems to focus on the concept that "nothingness" leads to "being" leads to "nothingness." Our struggle to come forth into existence is a futile and bitter exercise, since our death is its ultimate end. From that viewpoint, life would look very much like a wasteland. It would then become so much more difficult to accept and bear life's suffering.
…'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'
I think we are in rats' alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.
'What is that noise?'
The wind under the door.
'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'
Nothing again nothing.
'Do
'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
'Nothing?'
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'
But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It's so elegant
So intelligent
'What shall I do now? What shall I do?'
'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
'With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
'What shall we ever do?'
The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door...
Such an existence would look as a buddha world would, if Guatama had gotten up and walked away from the bodhi tree after arriving at the first of his Four Noble Truths. Christ's death on the cross would have been dramatically altered had a previous sentence been left to stand, and that last sentence not been uttered, along with the concept that gave it meaning.
Is April indeed the cruelest month? That would seem to depend largely on how you view your calender.

