An Aesthetic Experience

The last time I took a course on Aesthetics, we were asked to go out and "have an aesthetic experience." Though somewhat puzzled, I thought I'd head to the library and see what befell me; I spent so much time reading and writing that I wanted to have a truly aesthetic response to works of literature I normally critique and examine. So off I went, choosing T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land" as the object of my predetermined aesthetic experience.

Though this experience was a few years ago, I remember it pretty well. I remember standing in the library, the sun streaming in behind the rows of bookshelves, and the musty, wonderful smell of books. Perhaps captured by this smell, I remember lovingly plucking the volume of Eliot's poems from the shelf and turning right to the page -- I owned this volume myself. As I began to read, the feel of the book overtook me, and I could not stop stroking the pages as I read the familiar poem.

When I think of this poem now, the experience of reading it in the silence of the library is somehow irrevocably tied to it. I can no longer read the poem without remembering the way the pages felt, the smoothness on my fingertips like soft water; the smell of the books and the pregnant silence that permeates all libraries. Perhaps this was the aesthetic experience; perhaps I was mistaken that day when I reported my reactions to Eliot's haunting words.

This is not to say that the poem -- that day, and presently -- did not invoke a host of aesthetic responses. It's my favorite poem, and is so for many reasons. I love the images; how they are so real and timeless and yet fragmented. My favorite image from the poem is "I will show you fear in a handful of dust." Every time I read the poem, that line snags the flow of reading. I always stop, and picture a vivid scene in which two faceless men stand with each other, the first cupping a mound of gray dust in his hand, and the other looking at it in sheer bewilderment. I imagine the fear as real, as almost permanent -- once you are confronted with the permanence of the dust, I imagine that it conjures fear. And I am fearful too. As I read the rest of the poem I'm on tenterhooks, my mind and body waiting for the next image to haunt me. Other images I love from the poem are the dirty river, the sledding, the dried tubers, and Lil's scene at the bar ("hurry up please its [sic] time") repeated over and over like a metronome counting off the seconds.

But I love this poem for reasons other than its powerful imagery. I'm always moved by Eliot's language, especially his masterful ability to turn somewhat ordinary language into sheer magic. Example: "Son of man,/You cannot say nor guess, for you know only/a heap of broken images" or later "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)..." The sheer beauty of these images lies in their ordinariness (a point Eliot was arguably trying to make). But I'm catapulted into the sounds of these images as well. The whole section I've quoted sounds like a slow, measured chant; a quiet, almost mournful song that continues slowly. Though the sounds vary, giving the lines color, they move slowly, quietly; the "s" sounds follow with lilting "l"s and the repetition of silent images (no sound of water, sun beats, no shelter) -- things we cannot hear. I always stop over this section, read slowly, mouth the words to myself so that my body can relax, can drink in these mesmerizing sounds. In contrast to the mood that pervades the section described above, I love the line "with a wicked pack of cards" because the sounds seem to express the relish with which the speaker delivers them. This line has some of the earlier lament, and does move with a slower pace, but is propelled by the hard, quick sounds of "k" and "c". I just love to say this line out loud...

I could go on, but I won't. Suffice it to say that this poem moves me because of the language, the sounds, the images -- quite like many poems. I love poems not for their subject matter but for their language, for the way that the words make me feel as I read them, picture them, feel them on my tongue, in my heart, and on my fingers. I choose this poem even over other poems I love (and there are many) because as of yet, no other poem I've read has given me such thrills. Cheesy, I know, but I can't help it. The poem makes me shiver...in a good way.