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A table means does it not my dear it means a whole steadiness. Is it likely that a change.
A table means more than a glass even a looking glass is tall. A table means necessary places and a revision a revision of a little thing it means it does mean that there has been a stand, a stand where it did shake.
Gertrude Stein’s A Table is a deceptively simple yet profoundly complex poem that challenges conventional notions of meaning, stability, and perception. At first glance, the poem appears fragmented and repetitive, but upon closer examination, it reveals a meditation on the nature of objects, language, and existence itself. Stein, a central figure in modernist literature, was known for her experimental style, which sought to dismantle traditional syntax and narrative structures in favor of a more fluid, associative mode of expression. A Table exemplifies this approach, using repetition, paradox, and semantic play to interrogate the stability of both language and the physical world.
This essay will explore the poem’s historical and cultural context, its use of literary devices, its central themes, and its emotional resonance. Additionally, we will consider Stein’s broader philosophical influences—particularly her engagement with Cubism and existential thought—and how they inform the poem’s construction. By situating A Table within the landscape of modernist experimentation, we can better appreciate its radical departure from conventional poetry and its enduring significance as a work of avant-garde art.
To fully grasp the significance of A Table, one must situate it within the broader context of early 20th-century modernism. Stein was a pivotal figure in the Parisian avant-garde, moving in circles that included Pablo Picasso, Henri Matisse, and Ernest Hemingway. Her writing was deeply influenced by Cubism, an artistic movement that sought to represent objects from multiple perspectives simultaneously, breaking them down into geometric forms rather than depicting them realistically.
Stein’s literary style mirrors this fragmentation. Just as Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon (1907) shattered traditional perspective, Stein’s poetry disrupts linear narrative and grammatical norms. In A Table, the table is not merely described—it is interrogated, destabilized, and redefined through repetition and shifting connotations. The poem’s opening line—“A table means does it not my dear it means a whole steadiness”—immediately establishes a tension between the table as a symbol of solidity and the instability of language itself.
The cultural moment in which Stein wrote was one of upheaval: World War I had shattered old certainties, and artists responded by dismantling traditional forms. Stein’s work, like that of James Joyce and T.S. Eliot, reflects this crisis of meaning. However, while Eliot’s The Waste Land (1922) laments fragmentation, Stein embraces it, finding a new kind of coherence in dislocation.
Stein’s A Table relies heavily on repetition, not as a rhetorical flourish but as a structural principle. The word “table” recurs, yet its meaning shifts with each iteration. At times, it signifies domestic stability (“a whole steadiness”); elsewhere, it suggests impermanence (“a stand where it did shake”). This technique forces the reader to reconsider the object’s essence—does a table remain the same if our perception of it changes?
The poem also employs paradox, particularly in lines like:
“A table means more than a glass even a looking glass is tall.”
Here, Stein juxtaposes the table’s solidity with the glass’s fragility, yet subverts expectations by noting that a “looking glass is tall”—an observation that seems irrelevant yet underscores the arbitrariness of linguistic associations. The looking glass (mirror) introduces themes of reflection and self-perception, suggesting that the table, too, may be a site of projection rather than an inert object.
Another key device is syntactic ambiguity. The line “Is it likely that a change.” is deliberately incomplete, resisting closure. Is the table subject to change? Or does its meaning shift based on context? Stein’s refusal to resolve these questions mirrors the Cubist insistence on multiple perspectives.
At its core, A Table grapples with the tension between stability and flux. The table, traditionally a symbol of domestic order, becomes a site of uncertainty. The phrase “a revision of a little thing it means it does mean that there has been a stand, a stand where it did shake” suggests that even the most solid objects are subject to reinterpretation. This aligns with existentialist ideas emerging in Stein’s time—the notion that meaning is not inherent but constructed through human perception.
Language itself is another central theme. Stein’s repetitive, circular phrasing mimics the way words accrue and lose meaning over time. The table is not just a physical object but a linguistic construct, and Stein exposes the instability of that construct. In this sense, the poem anticipates postmodern critiques of language, such as those later articulated by Jacques Derrida, who argued that meaning is always deferred and never fixed.
Despite its abstract style, A Table carries an emotional undercurrent. The address “my dear” introduces a tone of intimacy, as if the speaker is confiding in a companion. Yet this familiarity is undercut by the poem’s semantic instability, creating a sense of alienation. The reader is drawn into a dialogue about meaning, only to find that meaning is perpetually elusive.
This duality—intimacy alongside fragmentation—reflects the modernist condition. In a world where traditional certainties have collapsed, even the most mundane objects (like a table) become sites of existential questioning. The emotional impact lies in this tension: the desire for stability amidst inevitable change.
Stein’s work can be fruitfully compared to that of other modernists. Like Samuel Beckett, she explores the failure of language to fully capture reality. Beckett’s Waiting for Godot (1953) similarly employs repetition and circularity to convey existential uncertainty. However, where Beckett’s tone is often bleak, Stein’s is playful, even whimsical.
Another illuminating comparison is with Wallace Stevens, particularly Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird (1917). Both poets fragment perception, presenting multiple, contradictory views of a single object. Yet Stevens’ poem retains a lyrical quality, whereas Stein’s is more concerned with the mechanics of language itself.
Stein’s personal life also informs A Table. She shared a home with Alice B. Toklas, and their domestic space was a salon for artists and writers. The table, then, may symbolize both the stability of their relationship and the intellectual ferment of their gatherings. At the same time, Stein’s identity as a Jewish lesbian in early 20th-century Europe adds another layer—her work often encodes marginalization and the search for solidity in an unstable world.
Stein’s interrogation of the table resonates with phenomenological philosophy, particularly the work of Martin Heidegger, who argued that objects reveal their essence through use. For Heidegger, a table is not just wood and nails but a site of human activity. Stein’s poem enacts a similar revelation, showing how the table’s meaning shifts based on context and language.
A Table is a masterful example of Stein’s ability to distill profound philosophical inquiries into minimalist verse. By destabilizing language and perception, she invites readers to question the very foundations of meaning. The poem’s brilliance lies in its simultaneity—it is at once a playful linguistic game and a serious meditation on existence.
In an era where certainty is increasingly elusive, Stein’s work remains strikingly relevant. A Table does not offer answers but instead revels in the beauty of the question itself. It is a testament to the power of poetry to unsettle, challenge, and ultimately deepen our engagement with the world.
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