The paradox reflected by this statement is connected intimately to a large amount of source material. The the human body is rendered as an amorphous shape, almost liquid, able to flow in the manner of water. Antithetically, the nature of the human river is directed against the compulsion of gravity, carrying upwards and cresting the hill rather than falling into compliance and rolling down its slope. In order to effectively attach to the slope, the human body would necessarily be able to establish some form of traction, of adherence that would anchor it and oppose gravitational motion. Bandelaine provides an explanation of this in the form of sap. The sap exists as a "flowing" lively entity that travels the veins of the human body, intermingled anatomically, a stark contrast to the dullness, the predictable patterns of an urban environment. Here, the same is true - the sap takes on a vivid life that resists the predictable motion of the slope, enabling the body to oppose constraints that challenge it. Additionally, Dante makes reference to the wicked souls that fling themselves from the shore, he compares them to autumn leaves falling away during seasonal transition. In this manner, the ejection of the damned into the belly of Hell contrasts vibrantly with common connotations of naturalistic deposition. Shedding of leaves demands lamentation, a mournful tone that encapsulates the loss of a thing that was living, was functional, was fertile. The passage of damned souls resides in opposition, evincing a position of security and justice - sinners are rightfully contained in Hell and represent a damaged vestige of humanity rather than a symbol of fertility. The sap's properties of viscosity and adherence harbor a similar notion. It is a remnant, a liquid that contains the lifeblood of nature, as is reflected by the leaves. However, it is employed in defiance of its customs - to aid the ascendance of humanity against nature's common laws.

The tarot cards, regarded with a high degree of antiquity by many scholars, reflect an unsure ancestral line. Whether or not they are direct predecessors to modern playing cards or of a distinct group remains unclear. However, what they do certainly contain is a connection to Le Morte D'Arture. The Cup, Lance, Sword, and Dish, corresponding images from the aforementioned story, converge to represent the four distinct suits of a tarot deck. Within Le Morte D'Arture, these images can be percieved as harbingers of fertility, of healing to an emaciated landscape left barren by the impotence and perpetual illness of the king. Once they are found, procreation and naturalistic recovery are able to commence once again, cyclically so, providing reprieve from a constant state of waste land. Within the context of tarot, these symbols take a central role in the cards' common divination purposes, one that is relevant to the healing of land. Transcending the commonality of mundane tarot use, these symbols would - within the concept of the Grail - be used to represent a different form of divination, one that foretells the recovery and restoration of the landscape. The symbols thus become not just thematically connected with an evanescent prospect of rebirth, but also with a rich history of fortune telling that reveals their status as prophetically tied to the return of fertility. Critically, this status extends to the cited text. The card, borne aloft on the back, is noted as blank, seemingly absent of either of the four suits - thus non-indicative of restoration. However, the following phrase, describing the forbidden nature of the card's hidden visage, challenges this notion. If the card is indeed blank, what prevents wandering eyes from glancing at its empty surface? Eliot seems to be tantalizing the audience, questioning the candor of his own work. In the balance hangs the prospect of the card's prophetic powers. Obviously, if it is blank, no catalytic change will occur, no prophecy will return fertility to the land. On the off-chance that it contains one of the four suits, restoration seems within reach. In many ways, this ambiguous structure mirrors the poem's internal struggle to reconcile damnation, ruin, and waste, with an indefatigable hope for better things to come. The card may indeed be blank, and indeed, the pursuit of its visage may be in vain. It is in this near futility that the future remains uncertain. The prospect of divination is clear, but the land, and the audience, cannot quite grasp the prophecy.

This phrase seems evocative of a particular line from Ezekiel: "the spirit entered into me when he spake unto me, and set me upon my feet, that I heard him that spake unto me." (S2). The intimacy established between the intervention of a voice and the physical proximity of that voice is striking. In order for a spirit to connect with the human conscious, it must also enter into the body. The function of the red rock seems similar. First, the shadow's presence is noted underneath it, though Eliot's inclusion of a parenthetical the following line implies that the enclosed meaning can also be derived from its predecessor. So, the acknowledgement of the rock is not simply a detail, but a communication, a voice that demands physical proximity in order to adequately impose itself. Ezekiel also seems to project a passivity onto the role of humanity during the reception of divine language. This is indicated by the following: "I will make thy tongue cleave to the roof of thy mouth, that thou shalt be dumb, and shalt not be to them a reprover: for they are a rebellious house." (S3). The tongue is essential to the process of human communication, though the word worthy of most attention is "cleave." A lingering ambiguity enshrouds it, as it could either be interpreted as evoking the tongue's adhesion to the mouth (signaling silence) or even perhaps as the tongue's cutting away, its freedom from captivity at the roof of the mouth. Hence, uncensored human voice could be a purveyor of diving wrath (bringing "rebellion") in addition to human silence. Between the two conditions remains the only ground known not to incite the anger of God: passivity and subservience. The role of humanity is not to talk or to be silent, but merely to listen, to absorb, to establish proximity with a voice that is not their own, not directly associated with their action. The red rock provides this.

The Sybil's words reflect a distinction that I think is present in both Heart of Darkness and Metamorphoses. As the prophetess aged and succumbed to frailty, her size became progressively more diminished, eventually enabling her imprisonment in a jar or a cage. Such an environment implicates constricting containment in a physical sense, though this rigidity is contradicted by the human voice. Due to the Sybil's relationship with Greek deities, her words were recognized and revered for their prophetic excellence and foresight. So, while the Sybil was physically imprisoned, her words contained a transcendental wisdom - arguably able to provide an escape from the stagnation and befuddlement of humanity's pursuits. A similar phenomenon occurs in Heart of Darkness, in that Kurtz's disseminated voice becomes an entity distinct from his body. Marlow references his voice as one of "purity," even acknowledging that his wonder for Kurtz relies not necessarily in the man but rather in the unique and wondrous properties of his voice. Indeed, when Kurtz dies, his voice does seem to carry a permanence that surpasses not just his infirm body, but also the corruption and horrors of human nature - represented by the colonizers and the tribes throughout the story. Lastly, in Metamorphoses, the priestess discusses how the fates will bequeath her a voice, even in transformation, even in nonexistence. Together, these three examples seem to evince a similar dichotomy: the physical (in this case the waste land) is subject to cyclical corrosion and decay, while the voice remains elevated on a plane that is semi-divine. It is perhaps this that the poem investigates very closely: language, in its purity, can provide a panacea, though its efforts may be insufficient to find salvation for the physical. The human voice is indefatigable - the human body and soul are not.

Titularly, Eliot seems to acknowledge a futility in the process of synthesis before the poem even begins. Despite the yearning for growth, revival, and virility that many ancient rituals acknowledged (including the vegetative rituals Eliot raises), the title carries a stark and singularly focused message - it centers around decay rather than fertility. The involvement of Le Morte D'Arthur reflects this notion as well. Beginning the causality that exists between the King's frailty and vitality and the health the land, the monarch's deficiency is meant to be addressed and reversed by the hero, a reversal that has not yet been indicated in the title. Beyond this central connection, Le Morte D'Arthur also employs the image of a "bed of tree," an image that is diametrically opposed to Eliot's title. As an inherently naturalistic image, a tree bed carries within it a promise of fertility and rebirth that is furthered by its association with subconscious sleep. The latter component serves as an additional marker of renewal, with the mind being invigorated and energized following relaxation. Crucially, this synthesis occurs in a self-catalytic fashion - the tree is a component of the corrupted, dying land that is capable of healing its woes. Contrastingly, "The Waste Land" includes no element of self-preservation or suggestion of renewal by nature. The land's condition and identity are absolute, a portrait of loss and disturbance that cannot be undone. It is almost as though the blood of the maimed king (anointed by Galahad) has been stripped of its recuperative properties. Dull, conventional, and macabre, the blood would in this case illustrate the King's weakness and imminent death rather than his rebirth. The title is openly declarative - a wound exists, one for which no current remedy has prevailed.