Pulse and voice in The Waste Land

Lorenzo Peyrani

Abstract

There’s no lack of critical works about musical aspects of The Waste Land; still, few of
these engage directly the signifier of the poem, as they discuss the content and meaning
of references rather than typesetting, metrics and pronunciation. In specular fashion,
those works that do tackle signifiers don’t investigate them in musical terms 1. This
research focuses on musical analysis of The Waste Land, as it graphically looks on the
page and as it sounds recorded on phonograph, claiming it can assist interpretation.
First, I examine how Eliot systematically uses typographic space as a rigorous musical
tool (a 3/4 time direction), resulting in a shift in reading performance from qualitative to
quantitative metre (this not being a “natural” consequence, but the result of a very
conscious work). The extent to which Pound influenced Eliot in some of these
realizations leads us to look for complex musical values, so-called metric modulations, in
free verse, empirically testing limit speed ratios of reading performance, in the attempt of
establishing accurate subdivisions of the text.
Then, Eliot’s essay The Three Voices of Poetry is put in connection with the changes in
pulse in the recordings that I associated with properties of free verse theorized by Pound,
asserting these are instrumental in representing and diversifying inner thought, rhetorical
argument and dramatic speech (by means of their respectively different relationships with
their addressees and contexts).
It is argued how metric modulation, alongside a more general semantic modulation–a
change in context flagged by the shifting of grammar operators, like personal pronouns
and correlatives–works as a means employed to create variety inside a continuum. I
therefore derive some logical conclusions about the nature of the transformations of the
speaker in The Waste Land, highlighting the dichotomy between the mimeses that drive
the swift turnovers of the poem (often leading the reader to infer multiple voices) and the
slower metamorphosis that keeps it together, ensuring its horizontal development from
such abrupt vertical leaps.

1
with some notable, but scarce, exceptions. Hawlin, Eliot Reads The Waste Land: Text and Recording
(1992), Swigg, Sounding The Waste Land: T.S. Eliot’s 1935 Recording (2001) and Chambers, The Peace
of The Waste Land (2015) take on the analysis of the recordings, but they don’t discuss it in musical terms;
the last essay comes closer to our intention, but it moves from an opposite appraisal of typesetting.
Micakovic, T.S. Eliot’s Voice: A Cultural History (2015) goes deep in examining the historical importance
of the phonograph recordings, but, insofar as interpretative issues are in cause, I come to different
theoretical answers (see discussion about melopoeia as not opposed to metrical maneuvering further on)
and draw interpretative conclusions about the poem and not about the recordings themselves. Brooke,
Hammond & Hirst operate with The Waste Land’s written signifier (see Brooke et al, 2015), but their scope
is that of automation (using the poem as constant term and not as variable), not literary criticism.
On the other hand, Christopher Ricks’s conference on auditory imagination (2013) is used as a starting
point for this paper; even more relevant an article not about Eliot’s, but about Pound’s mastership of
rhythms: Langman, Cutting a Shape in Time (2002) is inspirational for the second part of this text. It is not
surprising that pivotal speculation is coming from this direction, having Eliot studied il miglior fabbro’s
technique for years: see in particular Eliot, Ezra Pound: His Metric and Poetry (1917), Pound, The Treatise
on Harmony, contained in Pound, Antheil (1927) and Pound, The ABC of Reading (1934).
I. Typesetting observations

Sir Christopher Ricks, during a lecture 2 on Eliot’s “auditory imagination”, carefully

examines unexpected pronunciation and/or metrical scan of some thirty words throughout
different recordings; he underlines3 how dramatically different from what one could
expect Eliot sometimes goes, and, even if he states 4 that there is no point in asking if
Eliot had the right to do so, he admits5 that criticizing him for not having made it
sufficiently clear in the poem would be licit. This paper inserts itself within this
framework.
I like to start with the first explicit (and most frequently analyzed 6) musical moment in
The Waste Land, namely the quotation from Tristan’s first Act “Frisch weht der Wind /
Der Heimat zu / Mein Irisch Kind / Wo weilest du?”. Often7 critics in search of “musical”
interpretations refrain from looking into the recordings of the poem, because, as they
promptly noticed when they first listened to them, it is “not sung”. The fact that Eliot
didn’t seize the chance to sing those lines stands as a memento for actual or wannabe
directors and composers conspiring transpositions 8.
Nevertheless, in typical Eliotian fashion, the wise stone lies right below the stunning
opaqueness. The reductive idea that the lines are “not sung” by Eliot relies on the fact
that the pitch of the vowels does not follow the well-known Wagnerian melody, yet, the
fact that Wagner’s notation is not implemented regarding pitch does not mean that it is
not respected at all. Eliot rightly thought that, though music and poetry have many points
of contact, they have differences too. Specifically, the rhythm generated by the different
lengths of uttered syllables is a perfectly compatible common ground, whose notation
needs no translation, whereas pauses and melisms pertain to music’s domain and need to
be transformed to be represented in poetry9. If we go back to Eliot’s recordings of the
poem and take careful notice of the rhythmical pattern of those lines, we will see that the
“regular” expected metrical reading is not followed. What should be a plain (albeit
nervous) u ù u ù | u ù u ù | u ù u ù | u ù u ù (musically analyzable as four groups in 2/4
time, what Pound called “rocking-horse rhythms”) is actually vocalized as the rocking u –
u – | u – u – | u – u – | u – u – (musically in 3/4 time: four iambic μέτρα) which definitely
sounds more appropriate (not only Eliot’s, but every recording I know follows this scan)
and that is also a correct rhythmical rendition of Wagner’s score (pauses, which, again,
for Eliot remain music’s different domain, excluded). So, the reader of The Waste Land
“sings” those lines; he represents the singing with the main musical tool inherently proper
to poetry: rhythm.

2
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zhkcrQ09YdU
3
ibid. 32:08
4
ibid. 29:26
5
ibid. 32:52
6
a propos, consider the 1989 article by S. Wintle, eloquently titled Wagner and The Waste Land—Again.
7
that would be an elenco infinito. One for all: Paterson, Frisch weht der Wind etc (2016).
8
on the relationship between kitsch and the Holy, see Calasso, La rovina di Kasch (1983).
9
pitch does have a poetic representation through intonation, but this topic goes beyond the scope of this
article; see references to melopoeia in Pound, The ABC of Reading.
Still: “Is it sufficiently clear in the poem?”. Where do we find the directions (within the
text) to apply these rules, there where they should be applied and there only?
First I’d like to say that to obtain such an effect Eliot needn’t use as much information as
contained in Wagner’s score, not even considering the sole rhythmical aspects. The only
thing one needs to is shifting from qualitative English metre to the Greek quantitative
one. What in the English model are stressed syllables in the Greek system become long
syllables: u ù u ù becomes u – u –; 2/4 becomes 3/4. So, theoretically, just one indication
would be necessary to quote Wagner and justify the ear-friendly reading of those lines.
And, actually, there is one aspect of those four lines which is peculiar to them and that
keeps them apart from the preceding and following ones: typographic space. Eliot, who
never liked wasting one whole word with only one meaning, wrote “The disposition of
the lines on the page […] can never give an exact notation of the author’s metrics. The
chief value of the author’s record […] is a guide to the rhythms.” 10. So, for Eliot the goal
of recording the poems was in the first place an assistance to typesetting 11. The fact that
he thought that the disposition of the lines on the page was not univocal enough to
represent the metrics correctly means that unusual dispositions of lines on the page are
attempts to represent directions in the field of rhythm (unlike calligrams or concrete
poetry). If we follow this trail, for example with another Wagnerian reference, that to the
third Act of Götterdämmerung found in The Fire Sermon12, we discover a promising
homogeneity. Again, what is fundamentally an even foot gains “breath” shifting from a
2/4 to a 3/4 by means of the doubling in length of stressed syllables. So we don’t read
“Red sails” as a pyrrhic ù ù but as a spondaic – – and “The barges wash” doesn’t sound u
ù u ù but u – u – (exact match with “Frisch weht der Wind” etc.). The cross-rhythm
created by the waves breaking against the sides of the boat while it turns right and left
around the Isle of Dogs is represented in its horizontal development; two very different
and distinct attainments see the waltzy u u – u – (“With the turning tide”) and the
breaking of line division with the lonely “Wide” followed by the triple “To leeward,
swing on the heavy spar.”: – / u – u | – u u – u – 13, an amphibrach followed by a dactyl
and a cretic that juxtapose the “Swing” of the sails to that of African syncopation, back to
the common mimetic origin of water drumming (a way to talk with the river 14). The
second verse gives us a steadier track, with the boat’s alignment to the winds restored and
the Thames’ dilation that follows its bending round the Isle of Dogs 15: noteworthy the
final inversion “White towers” marking the end of the verse (anceps trochee).
But is it right to infer that the typographic space has this precise metrical significance,
building a theory out of two examples?

10
from the sleeve notes to the recording of Four Quartets. Italics mine.
11
in writing this I knowingly depart from most interpretations of Eliot’s words, and most relevantly from
Chambers (2015) in The Hilltop Review: Vol. 7: Iss. 2, pg 74.
12
the first two verses (insieme) of the so-called “Song of the Thames Daughters”, lines 266-291.
13
Eliot actually utters – / u – u | – u u ù – – in both versions, but this singular exception to the supposed
rules, during such a difficult rhythmical passage, could be an error on Eliot’s side.
14
about Eliot’s intuition that Jazz represented one perfect superimposition of modernity and primitivism,
see Chinitz, Eliot’s Cultural Divide (particularly Chapter 4); about poetry and music as originally imitative,
see, for example, Winn, Unsuspected Eloquence: A History of the Relations between Poetry and Music
(1981).
15
and that is meant to continue exponentially till Margate sands, and maybe Carthage.
Incidentally, there is an interesting variation on the theme in the Song of the Thames
Daughters, operating in the refrain at the end of every verse; in addition to the bonus
typographic spacing the whole section “benefits”, there a second level is implemented:
the “Weielala, weiela”s that end each section are pushed further in the middle of the
page, and the reading, once more, is affected. This time one notices the change not in the
metrics as in the tempo, that speeds up with a 4/3 ratio. What is the significance of this?
The weielala weielas’ maintaining the 3/4 rhythm when a typographic space is added
implies their changing of tempo, as in as much the previous two examples we analyzed
maintaining of tempo implied their changing of rhythm (and of bar length: 3/2). So, not
only the typographic space is meant as a particular indication (quantitative metre), and
not only there is a constant ratio (3/2: it is called hemiola) between quantitative and
qualitative readings of the same metre, but when juxtaposed it is also meant to be
cumulative16. This will result clearer examining pulse ratios in qualitative metre in the
next paragraph.
This feature, besides flexibility, brings with it some ambiguity, which might have added
to Eliot’s dissatisfaction with the transparency of his tool. The same application of the 3/2
ratio appears again in the “Water Song” in What the Thunder Said17, this time with the
text positioned to the left, almost at the base margin. The predicted shift to quantitative
metre is performed as expected, but here the tempo is slowed down. This increasing
subtlety in the directions might reflect, one more time, a worry for the communicability
of the directions themselves and the wish to train the reader: first the shift to qualitative
reading is presented without change of tempo, then that new feature is added with the
weielalas, and, eventually, the Water Song demands both changing of tempo (now 3/4
slower, not 4/3 faster as before) and metre at the same time, without progression. What
the typographic directions wholly miss is the curve that Eliot embeds accelerando until
the centre of the song and then rallentando until at the end the initial tempo is restored.
These adjustments, that in musical scores are not notated in opposition to the base tempo
but rather in addition to it, are some of those that only recordings can communicate and
that made Eliot so committed to the task.
Last, we shall account for the other major use of typesetting in the poem, a direction that
Eliot knew would have never lead to confusion with the ones examined above and that,
on the contrary, would have induced instinctively its proper execution in the reader. This
is the anacrusis, arsis or levare direction that informs us that the anticipated word(s) are
intended to be read before the first strong beat (battere) in the line, as notes belonging to
a preceding bar18. This use of the space is characteristic to the second section and to the
“Nerves Dialogue” in particular. It’s nice to notice how also this levare direction is used
to summon specifical musical reminiscences, when, leaving one syllable alone at the
beginning of a sentence (“Do / you know nothing?” “But / O O O O that Shakespeherian
rag”) Eliot recreates for us the trademark rhythmical pattern of ragtime and swing: u / ù |
u / ù | u / ù | u / ù, etc.

16
more precisely, multiplicative; if we take 72 bpm as the tempo on which the 3/4 rhythm is constructed,
then its accelerated (placed to the right) value will be of 96 and the slowed down (placed to the left) of 54
bpm. These proportions are parallel to the 8/9 ratio later found in tempi: 64, 72, 81 bpm. See also note 23
for a better appreciation of why Eliot uses these proportions.
17
lines 346-358.
18
see Langman, 2002, p. 24, for identical analysis of Poundian verse.
II. Poème symphonique, for five metronomes

In the first part we analyzed rhythmical issues and I pointed out the underlying
connection between rhythm and tempo (musical speed, inversely proportional to pulse
length, measured in beats per minute); now we will further investigate timing issues in
Eliot’s recordings of the poem.
The main problem I want to single out is: are there intentional tempo changes in the
recordings of The Waste Land? And if so, can we find any kind of direction inside the
text that could “legitimate” such changes?
Popular music got us used to metronomical pulses and straight timing variations, whereas
classical music often works with accelerandi and rallentandi. But, being music’s
development rooted in time, both are built on the backbone of a rigorous, regular, beat;
the accelerandi, rallentandi and rubati of classical music are superimposed to such a beat
(that permits coordination between different musicians), and are not to be confused with
its changes (that are not progressive, but vertically instantaneous, unless otherwise
noted). On the contrary, actor-playing and poetry reading at the time (still under the
influence of Romanticism) freely fluctuated in instinctive forms. Pound was decided to
give poetry the same rhythmical rigour found in music, inveighing against the use of
variation of speed as a substitution for the rhythms of quantitative metre; he also claimed
the existence of a universal “Great Bass”, meaning that all pulses are absolute ratios.
Eliot did perform his poetry readings with accelerandi and rallentandi (so much so that
Micakovic maintains in her work19 that Eliot read grounding himself not on metric
notation but on Pound’s notion of melopoeia, which seems paradoxical to me) but this
does not imply the absence of an underlying pulse20, constant from a change until the
next. Scrutinizing the audio files of the recordings with a spectrogram software we can
notice all the variations in pace that occur during the reading (double-crossing the two
recordings we can also notice how intentional and calculated, meaning repeatable, they
are), but what are fluctuations “around” the pulse and what are pulse changes?
To overcome this problem I devised an empirical method. First I set a metronome to the
ideal tempo of a certain section of the poem (let’s take for example the incipit), then I
perform the poem myself without fluctuations. The steadiness of pulse gives to the
performance a detached feeling, still it works quite well, for a while. But then something
happens. When the reading comes to another section (for example “And when we were
children, staying at the arch-duke’s”) the pulse feels badly wrong. No matter how hard
one tries to stretch vocalization: the pulse feels too slow. The other way round is also
possible, of course: I set the metronome to the ideal tempo of that other (in this case,
faster) part of the poem and read it carefully on the beat until, again, something feels
wrong and a new change is needed. It may seem a desperate venture, but in truth the
results are encouraging. With this method I distinguished a minimum number of three

19
see Micakovic, 2015, p. 174.
20
regarding the differences between the 1935 and 1946 recordings, I absolutely agree with Chambers
(2015) that Swigg (2001) overestimates them and that they prove the strict adherence to a set of rules that
had one variation (the shortening, and not disappearing, of the pause at line break). In the later recording
Eliot displays more technical control, but the rhythmical interpretation of the poem is not different.
tempi in qualitative reading; these allow a not unnatural (even if robotically straight-to-
the-pulse) rendering of all the lines in the poem (except for the quantitative sections
examined before), and they also mark the limit between a reasonably instinctive
performance technique and one that requires specific musical skills. I will now quote the
opening stanza of the poem with the addition of marks 1, 2 and 3 indicating respectively
larghetto, adagio and andante tempo directions, and the colouring of some grammar
operators that will come handy later on.

1 April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised 2 us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
3 Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And 2 down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I 1 read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

Is this, however satisfying, anyhow legitimate? What signals, apart from the experiments
with metronomes, the right place to change pace? Once again, we are helped by the
intimate connection between tempo and rhythm. If we analyze the rhythmical structure of
the different parts, we effectively discover a coincidence between the varying in number
of syllables per line and the shift of pulse. With this I don’t mean that every time there is
a change in foot a change in pulse also occurs, but that it happens when the prime
divisors of the number of syllables change. This is called metric modulation, a musical
tool that can be applied to poetry. This is not the only way the changing of speed may be
detected. The slowing down back to adagio and eventually larghetto is flagged by the
grammar operators “we” and “I”; this will be explained in the next paragraph, where,
considering semantics, I try to give a more encompassing definition of Eliot’s triadic
framework pulse  μέτρον  voice.
So, free verse contains directions for tempo changes. When the metrical structure of the
lines shifts, it can be either to an equally divisible number (for example “Lilacs out of the
dead land, mixing / Memory and desire, stirring” goes from ten to eight half beats
without breaks) or to a differently divisible number (for example “A little life with dried
tubers. / Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee”) the latter compelling the
reader to change speed (or to abandon musicality altogether).
There are good reasons to think that Eliot was aware of the metric modulation
possibilities of free verse before beginning work on The Waste Land, because the idea of
applying metric modulation to free verse has been extrapolated from the analysis of the
works of Ezra Pound21. Moreover, the quatrain poems that predate Gerontion and The
Waste Land could be easily explained in the perspective of an author cultivating the
intention of working with free verse with such rigour (being this idea of free verse
actually a hybrid verse it requires maximum precision with the working of the regularly
rhythmed components; moreover, protesting that the substance of his poems wasn’t
hiding behind the eccentricities of free verse, he hoped for more appropriate and serene
criticism of the complex free verse he had in mind)22.
One final observation: the three tempi I called larghetto, adagio and andante are not to be
understood as very detached slow, medium and fast tempi, but rather as medium-slow,
medium and medium-fast. The ratio between each and its immediate faster neighbour is
easily obtainable (“A little life with dried tubers” places eight beats where “coming over
the Starnbergersee” places nine): 8/9 (for example 64 / 72 / 81 bpm), which finally
explains the ratios in tempo changes we found earlier, relatively to quantitative metre. We
discovered that those three tempi where defined by this proportion: a=3/4b, b=3/4c,
whenas the proportion relative to the qualitative system is a=8/9b, b=8/9c. This allows us
to calculate the product of ratios (constant), which again is the hemiola ratio 3/2; this
means that both within-quantitative and within-qualitative tempo changes are built with
the same ratio, that is itself describing the proportion of bar lengths between the two
groups23.

III. Throbbing phonetic semantic psychedelic

I will now move from the realm of signifiers to that of signified. What does a change of
pulse convey? Why does Eliot change pulse in determinate points of the poem? Has this
any connection to the meanings he wants to channel?
I have looked for correspondences between changes in pulse and semantics, and I
discovered some revealing conformity: it is a systematical shift of grammar operators
(meaning the shifting in reference between the same grammar operator and different
addressees without what would be the proper grammatical break) that triggers the change
in pulse (particularly relevant when the change doesn’t affect the metre). Before trying to
infer a general rule concerning grammar operators, I will recall Eliot’s essay The Three
Voices of Poetry, speculating that the change of pulse is a change of voice, precisely in
the sense he clarifies in his text. The three voices represent respectively: the inner and
truer (only partly voluntary) thought of the poet; the outward rhetorical mask that a
subject presents to the public without opening up (like that of a talk show host or of a

21
see Langman, Cutting a Shape in Time (2002), pg. 19.
22
“It is, in fact, just this adaptability of metre to mood, an adaptability due to an intensive study of metre,
that constitutes an important element in Pound’s technique.” Eliot, (1917).
23
apparently, all quantitative reading in the poem has the starting value of the adagio tempo (for example
72 bpm) but changes more decidedly to 96 and 54 bpm in its variants. We could so resume the tempi table
as proportionate to these ratios: 64 larghetto, 72 adagio, 81 andante (qualitative, 2/4); 54 lento, 72 adagio,
96 andante moderato (quantitative, 3/4). This explains the relationship between the 3/2 ratio in beats per
measure and the 4/3 ratio in tempo regarding the weieleias: 4/3*9/8=3/2.
politician); the dramatic rendition of a character other than ourselves (like the imitation of
somebody else). It’s not apparent, but there is a difference of speed and rhythm among
these groups of voices, even if they can accelerate and slow down from their starting,
peculiar tempi. The first voice is inherently slower, sometimes pausing to consider its
own products; the second is slightly faster, but with an opposite relationship to pauses,
which are used for rhetorical effect and not for sincere reflection; while the dramatic,
dissociated voice is fastest, more prosaic; its poetical attainments are to be counterfeited
as random.
With an interesting overturning Eliot places the stream of consciousness on the mouth of
the other, with a scheme even closer to an ante litteram Lacan than to Freud24. If this
third voice slows down, feigning the first voice of another subject, it comes to
vacuousness, revealing its simulachrum existence, not unlike a golem. The beginning of
the poem, which we clustered earlier, is exemplary in this sense. Right as if Eliot wanted
to adequately stretch his vocal cords, giving us an overall view of the tools he’s going to
employ (and helping us to better orientate ourselves later on in the poem), we follow the
speaker of the poem operate full ranging acrobatics, from the slow and poetic (clearly
aimed to communicate universal truths, classically worth of a serious composition to
convey), to the fast and prosaic and obscure (blotting out the reader, as cut behind the
strongest fourth wall, wherefrom to peep a privy spectacle), back to the slow and poetic
(but this time unconsciously so, with the apparent intention of nothing more than a
personal note and no manifest interest for universalisms, urging to communicate, at tops,
with an intimate confidant). At the same time it moves from singular to plural, then to a
different plural and back to a different singular, then to a third, also different (but with
one of its elements in common with the second one) plural; common element (Marie)
which is that singular we finally end up to.
What does Eliot achieve with these “singular/plural” switches? He goes from a subject’s
thought to his memories of an absent other, to the memories of another absent other’s
conversation that include her memories of another absent that was not personally known
by the original subject, finally coming “back home” to inner reflection, save for having
changed what was outer with what was inner half the way through. Exactly in the middle
of the process, when the “us” meaning Marie and Tom becomes the “we” meaning Marie
and her children relatives, there is the mysterious25 insert of a foreign and unexpressed
“I” (“Bin gar keine Russin” etc). It is remarkable that the masculine stays all at one end of
the stanza, the feminine all at the other, and the promiscuous dance of plurals in the
middle (split in two by the German line). Parading all the shades of his mimetic powers,
the speaker goes out of itself and “hides” inside an almost perfect other (who, contrarily
to the non-dissociated speaker of the beginning, has no intention of writing a poem; the
result is nevertheless poetic and the meaning maintains coherence: I go south in the
winter, thus April is the cruellest month); nevertheless, in doing so it actually gives us a
perfect description of itself: if the other is female, it itself is male. This association

24
see Rimbaud, Lettre du Voyant (1871), and Lacan, Fonction et champ de la parole et du langage en
psychanalyse (1953).
25
after many wrong interpretations, claiming first that the line was taken from Marie’s conversation, then
that it was a manufactured symbol of post-war Europe; it was finally recognized as the most obscure
reference to a short novel by H.G. Wells: see Mason, The Lithuanian Whore in The Waste Land (1989). It
is likely that Eliot didn’t intend the reader to get the reference but to remain astonished in a determinate
way; but why then using a quotation at all? And why Wells’? Is there a magical intention in Eliot’s poetry?
between self and masculinity and other and femininity is very strong, even if there are no
closed doors in the poem. The other’s masculinity appears as the oracular voice (the
perfect description of the process is the ambiguous Madame Sosostris, who presents us
exactly a woman–the other–with a man’s voice), while femininity of the self is shunned,
till the protagonist is sexually used by Mr. Eugenides26 in The Fire Sermon and his
identification with the raped daughters overcomes the resistance. This enables him to
identify with the oracular voice, becoming Tiresias and keeping, from that point until the
very last page, a much stabler position, without further mimicry27.

Conclusions

Differentiating between accelerandi, rallentandi and rubati on one side, and base tempo
changes on the other, I claim that there is a stricter correlation between typesetting (and
metre) and Eliot’s recordings of the poem–that are in my opinion two not very different
interpretations of a text that is meant as a score, however incomplete (like every score
always is)–than mainstream exegesis currently assumes.
The discovery of two ternary sets of tempi (governed by ratios built exclusively out of
integers two and three, ingrained by the congenital quantitative/qualitative metre ratio:
Greek/English=3/2) underlying the recordings and the metric structure of complex free
verse constructions, and a correlation of those ternary sets to grammatically “unjustified”
shifts between operators and addressees, drew me to look into Eliot’s definition of the
“three voices of poetry”, that strikes me as a later meditation about a praxis first
developed between 1917 and 1921 as an incorporation of some of Pound’s techniques.
Eliot didn’t want to emphasize the maths involved for at least three good reasons: first he
didn’t want to get caught in a too constraining web of rules, second he wasn’t merely
following Pound (who was most committed to the topic) but pursuing his own instinct,
third he didn’t want to give away his method. What is really relevant for the thesis
contained in this paper is not that these rules are followed exactly in the text and reading
performance as if they were an end; on the contrary, it is meant to defend the idea that
these (or such) ideal rules were used by Eliot while imagining the poem and referred to as
guidelines when creating its most daring exploits; so much so that even recordings made
decades later by the non-musician that he was see an overwhelmingly predominant
accomplishment of their constitutional proportions. So the ternary sets of tempi should be
used in future explorations as “filters” in the analysis of the metrics of the poem and of
the drafts, to draw hypotheses about Eliot’s method of writing and organizing the work in
process.
I like moreover to underline that the opposition of a male first voice and a female third
voice, or that of a male first voice outside of the fourth wall and that of a female first
voice decidedly inside the fourth wall, brings me to conclude that the speaker in the poem
has some determinate characteristics, and first of all is not a plural (even if he surely is a
multitude). The succession of the three voices tells us that we are dealing with an
unchanging subject mimicking somebody else, whereas the changing within the same

26
see The Waste Land - A Fac-Simile and Transcript of the Original Drafts etc (1971) pg. 47 line 190.
27
for a constructivist analysis of mythical method as opposed to allegory in a horizontal dichotomy of The
Waste Land (and of Eliot’s ouvre in general), see Serpieri, T.S. Eliot: le strutture profonde (1985).
voice means that we are being narrated of a metamorphosis: the negation, acceptance and
going insane (or pretending so) of a same subject.
Using the tool of musical interpretation I therefore claim that the speaker of The Waste
Land is one, that he is male and that his conscious image of the self changes during the
poem (through a different circuiting with his feminine side) with consequences to his
experience of reality. My understanding of the ending of the poem is that this new clarity
persuades him to estrange himself from the human kind, indefinitely but not conclusively.