'All Shall Be Well' - the Conclusion of 'Little Gidding'
As previously discussed, poetry lies at one end of a spectrum: poems are by definition highly precise, usually much shorter, concentrations of meanings and sounds, regulated and shaped by the gaps, holes, absences or vacuums both in sound and in meaning which create the pulse we know as rhythm. Whereas a writer can safely use prose to transmit broad meanings, exact and intense experiences tend to move towards poetry by their nature.
In Eliot’s case with Little Gidding, given his broad sweep of philosophy and his attempt to approach a meaning which embraces all of Life, it might be considered that prose would have been the better medium - but Eliot wants not only to communicate an idea but the experience of transcendence itself, and so uses poetry with its tiny vacuums or gaps which draw in our attention more completely and more deeply. Taking more care in selecting words with their differences in meaning is only part of it: the poet uses rhythm to bring on a conclusion forcefully. In the fourth section of Little Gidding, the rhythm grows more intense, even breathless, just as the religious imagery becomes more explicit and Pentecostal:
The dove descending breaks the air
With flame of incandescent terror
Of which the tongues declare
The one discharge from sin and error.
The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre of pyre-
To be redeemed from fire by fire.
Oxymoronic juxtaposition of opposites has become a charge towards one extreme or the other, Hellfire or Pentecostal flame, which resemble each other in their burning. But the source of both pains is again an unexpected opposite:
Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.
We only live, only suspire
Consumed by either fire or fire.
‘Suspire’ echoes ‘pyre’ and 'fire' but means breath rather than death: it is this cohesion of sound and meaning which form the ‘glue-like’ nature of poetry: a prose statement could say much the same thing, and even use images with beauty, but Eliot wants to do more than convey, he wants to re-create.
After this climactic crushing of religious images, sound, rhythm and meaning, in the denouement of the poem’s story Eliot slows things down again and elucidates what he has tried to do: we have come to the end of this poem (and indeed of the Four Quartets of which it is the final piece) and for us it is the beginning of a life beyond or outside the poem and its experience: ‘What we call the beginning is often the end/And to make and end is to make a beginning./The end is where we start from.’
Eliot points out the careful and considered poetic construction through which he has brought us to this end:
And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph.
‘Epitaph’ is, like all the words in the poem, selected with care: apart from meaning something by which a person, time, or event will be remembered, it has overtones of the final inscription on a tomb. We are warned that what we do next is important, in an echo of the ‘other places/Which also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws,/Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city’ which were mentioned earlier:
And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
Not that we are finished with juxtaposing opposites: Eliot hopes that he has sprung us out of the habitual way in which we think of Time and Life and Death as linear in nature:
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments.
The ‘light’ brought by the poem is fading, but Eliot draws our attention back to the present moment of the specific physical location in which he began, with an expectation or a longing that what we will be left with (and he has used the collective ‘we’ throughout, but more particularly here at the end) is a renewed vision of where we began:
So, while the light fails
On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Becoming more explicit still with Christian imagery, Eliot takes us back to the Garden of Eden: