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Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said, 'Regard that woman
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin.'
The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two,
The street lamp said,
'Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter.'
So the hand of a child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
'Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smoothes the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain.'
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.
The lamp said,
'Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.'
The last twist of the knife.
T.S. Eliot’s Rhapsody on a Windy Night (1911) is a haunting exploration of modernity’s dislocations, weaving fragmented imagery, existential despair, and a destabilized sense of time into a visceral portrait of urban alienation. Written during Eliot’s formative years in Paris, the poem reflects the seismic cultural shifts of early 20th-century modernism while anticipating the existential philosophies that would dominate post-war thought. Through its surreal nocturnal journey, Eliot dissects the erosion of meaning in a mechanized world, offering a premonitory glimpse into the psychological toll of modernity.
Eliot composed Rhapsody amid modernism’s revolt against Victorian coherence. The poem’s disjointed structure-marked by abrupt temporal shifts (“Twelve o’clock,” “Half-past one”)-mirrors the collapse of stable narratives in a post-Darwinian, post-industrial world. Urbanization and technological advances had upended traditional rhythms, a disruption Eliot amplifies through the street lamps’ mechanized commands, which supplant natural cycles with artificial illumination811. The lunar imagery, far from romantic, becomes a “washed-out smallpox” entity, reflecting modern science’s demystification of nature11.
Eliot’s immersion in French Symbolism, particularly Jules Laforgue’s ironic urban vignettes, surfaces in the poem’s grotesque tableaus: a woman with a “torn and stained” dress, a cat devouring “rancid butter,” and a child’s “automatic” theft810. These images critique industrialization’s dehumanizing effects, a theme echoing Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal (1857), where urban decay becomes a metaphor for moral rot11. The poem’s title itself-Rhapsody-ironizes Romantic notions of spontaneous creativity, substituting ecstasy with dissonance.
Eliot’s mastery lies in transmuting decay into poetic resonance. Metaphors of entropy dominate: memory dissolves into “a crowd of twisted things,” while a “broken spring” rusts into fragility, emblematic of modernity’s spent vitality29. Similes heighten the grotesque: a woman’s eye “twists like a crooked pin,” merging human and mechanical decay49. The street lamps, personified as tyrannical narrators (“muttered,” “sputtered”), enact Bergson’s concept of duration-time not as linear progression but as a suffocating present78.
Symbolism anchors the poem’s existential dread. The moon, traditionally a muse, becomes an amnesiac crone whose “paper rose” symbolizes artifice replacing organic beauty11. The geranium-a Romantic emblem of passion-is “dead,” shaken by midnight’s “madman,” a metaphor for modernity’s assault on meaning911. Even the child, typically a figure of innocence, exhibits robotic detachment, their eyes void of inner life49.
Rhapsody interrogates memory not as a solace but a prison. The speaker’s psyche, “dissolved” by lunar “incantations,” becomes a landfill of disjointed impressions: “sunless dry geraniums,” “cocktail smells in bars,” and “female smells in shuttered rooms”411. These sensory fragments, devoid of narrative, mirror Freud’s contemporary theories of the unconscious-a realm of repressed traumas8. Eliot’s “twisted branch upon the beach,” stripped to its “skeleton,” epitomizes memory’s failure to cohere into meaning29.
The poem’s existential undertones prefigure Camus and Sartre. The street lamps’ directives (“Regard that woman,” “Remark the cat”) reduce the speaker to a passive observer, trapped in a deterministic loop39. The closing lines-“Prepare for life / The last twist of the knife”-reframe daily routine as a Sisyphean ritual, with “life” itself a metaphysical betrayal34. This aligns with Kierkegaard’s notion of “despair at the human condition,” where authenticity is obliterated by societal automatism7.
Eliot’s genius lies in evoking visceral unease through cumulative detail. The “fatalistic drum” of street lamps imposes a dirge-like rhythm, while sibilant consonants (“spaces of the dark,” “slipped out and pocketed”) create a whispered claustrophobia911. The speaker’s alienation crescendos in the final stanza: domestic objects (“tooth-brush,” “shoes”) become talismans of futility, underscoring the banality of survival in a disenchanted world49.
The poem’s emotional power stems from its refusal of catharsis. Unlike Wordsworth’s transcendent moments, Eliot offers only “the last twist of the knife”-a culmination of existential betrayal that resonates with Auden’s “Age of Anxiety” and Beckett’s barren landscapes37.
Rhapsody shares DNA with Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (1915), where urban ennui stifles self-expression. Both poems employ fragmented personas and decay motifs, but Rhapsody lacks even Prufrock’s wistful introspection, opting for clinical detachment56. Biographically, Eliot’s dislocation-an American in Europe, grappling with marital strife and spiritual void-infuses the poem with autobiographical urgency610. His later conversion to Anglicanism (1927) would seek to remedy this nihilism, but Rhapsody remains a stark artifact of his pre-faith despair.
Philosophically, the poem engages Bergson’s Time and Free Will (1889), where mechanistic time opposes lived experience. The street lamps’ temporal markers (“Half-past two”) parody clock-time’s tyranny, while the speaker’s disjointed memories embody Bergsonian durée-time as subjective flux78.
Rhapsody on a Windy Night is less a poem than an autopsy of modernity’s psyche. Eliot’s jagged imagery and existential resignation forecast 20th-century disillusionments, from World War I’s carnage to postmodernism’s fragmented identities. Yet within its desolation lies a perverse beauty: the “twisted branch” and “feeble eye” of the moon testify to art’s capacity to alchemize decay into enduring truth. As we navigate our own era of algorithmic isolation and climate dread, Eliot’s midnight rhapsody remains a piercing mirror, reflecting the cost of progress and the tenacity of the human spirit-even in its unraveling.
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