Fevered Ramblings

The best-and only- way I am able to describe the poem that is The Wasteland is this: it is the poetry one can create when his or her sanity is gone. With the number of shifting scenes and multiple characters, along with the focus on certain sounds that lead one to a different location than where they were previously are, for me, signs of madness. The seeming randomness of this poem could have only been formulated while under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs or while in a fever dream or perhaps even while actually lacking a composed sanity. It is incredible to see these ramblings form some measure of narrative and characters for a moment, only to be ripped away to another scene with new places and new characters to follow. It even goes as far to jump through time, it is so ludicrous, going from London to Carthage and to who knows where else! The insanity of this poem is remarkable and if T.S Eliot were alive today, I would find a way to speak with him and ask him, "How on Earth did you write this?" and "What is it about?"

Commented on Tyler's Post.