In a recent post, “Do We Teach Western Civilization?“, I discussed some of the issues that I have encountered in my experience with contemporary classical K-12 education in the United States. In this post, I want to continue that discussion by proposing some possible solutions to the problem of how to have a classical curriculum that both equips students with cultural literacy and reflects a diversity of cultures.
First, I think it is important to point out that although these two ideals are often cast as mutually exclusive goals, I think that they are in fact complementary. In the recent and ongoing protests at various colleges over English and humanities curricula that are perceived as “too white” and “too male,” for example, both sides of the issue seem to take it as their basic premise that a curriculum with a strong canonical emphasis must necessarily be a curriculum that lacks diversity.
To me, this seems bizarre. I currently teach literature and humanities courses at the college level in a college that is majority minority. My courses are, by design, focused on canonical works because I believe it is important for my students to gain some fluency in the “standards” that form the background to so much of American literature and even popular culture. The majority of my students come from disadvantaged backgrounds; many come from low-income households and neighborhoods, went to subpar public schools, are immigrants, and/or live in academic deserts in south Georgia. They deserve access to the works that the students of much more selective colleges like Reed College simply take for granted. There is an irony in the fact that removing canonical works from the curriculum is more likely to harm those students who are already at a disadvantage because of the lack of background exposure to these works in their middle and high schools.
In spite of the canonical focus of the courses I teach, however, I have never had an issue with having a diverse curriculum. When I go back through the assigned readings in my syllabi, I almost always have a close to a 50/50 gender balance of authors and a set of authors from diverse backgrounds. To be honest, I wonder how one cannot arrive at this simply by choosing authors that are important for students to know. My Introduction to Humanities syllabus, for example, is focused on the intellectual development of the West beginning with ancient Greece and progressing through to the 20th century. By necessity rather than by any attempt at pseudo-diversity by counting the numbers, there are readings from Du Bois, Gandhi, and a long section on Islam, among other diverse authors and topics. How could it be otherwise? The same is true of the readings from my literature courses; how could one teach an introductory American literature and poetry course without a heavy sampling, for example, from African-American authors?
The same was true of the curricula I developed when I taught in a classical K-12 charter school. I didn’t read Washington’s Up from Slavery or Du Bois’s Souls of Black Folk or Ellison’s Invisible Man with my students because they were mostly African American; I read these works with them because they are important canonical works.
If diversity in the curriculum doesn’t come naturally when one thinks of canonical works, perhaps it is time to reconsider what canonical means. In fact, perhaps it is time to reconsider the meaning of classical education. If it is to be more than mere Victorian revivalism and a strange sense of nostalgia for the 19th century, it has to be founded on a set of axioms that make sense in the modern world.
Any approach to education begins with a set of axioms that express the sort of person you want your students to be at the end of their period of institutional education. For me, the goal has always been that my students become:
- Culturally literature
- Lovers of Truth, Goodness, and Beauty
I see no contradiction between these goals. I want my students to understand the culture around them, and in the United States much of that culture is “Western,” but much of it is also non-Western. I want my students to feel a sense of being rooted in their own cultures and locations, but simultaneously to understand and appreciate the diversity of other cultures around them. And to see each culture as an expression of the universal desire for Goodness, Truth, and Beauty on the part of all people.
I emphatically do not believe that one must abandon the very concept of canon or of the Absolute in order to embrace an appreciation for diversity and to value the variety of cultures. The problem is not with believing that some things are better than others or that some things are truer than others; it is with the mistake of automatically assuming that difference is always a matter of better and worse and the all-too-human tendency to identify one’s own as the better.
I frequently tell my students that if something is True and Good and Beautiful, it is theirs. It is their birthright as human beings. Every aspect of the human experience is part of their experience. They may have their own heritages that they carry with them in a unique way, but they should be able to view every accomplishment of humanity as, in a sense, their own. Every person, no matter their faith, linguistic, cultural, or ethnic background, should be able to see the art of Leonardo da Vinci, the writing of W. E. B. Du Bois, the Bhagavad Gita, and Plato as their heritage as member of the human family.
Terence’s famous line “nothing human is alien to me” is a motto to live by. In its original context, the line is spoken by a character in one of Terence’s plays who is justifying his eavesdropping on others’ conversations. This seems appropriate to the modern world. In a sense, when I, as a Westerner, read the great works of ancient China or India or even Greece, I am eavesdropping on others’ conversations. They were not writing for me or to me, yet I am able to overhear them two thousand years later, and to see that their concerns are my concerns too, that they have something to say to me about what it means to be a human being.
Practically speaking, what I would like to see is a classical curriculum that continues the emphasis that classical K-12 schools have on grammar, logic, and rhetoric (that is, on an understanding of and authentic engagement with ideas), but that widens the scope of the conversation. I would like to see the Mahabharata and the Ramayana taught alongside the Iliad and the Odyssey; Confucius and Lao Tzu taught with Plato and Aristotle; Kabuki and Noh taught with Shakespeare. Such a curriculum may be difficult to accomplish. There is, after all, only so much time in the school year, which means some sacrifices will have to be made from existing material. Then there is the matter of finding teachers who have a diverse enough educational background and a cosmopolitan enough attitude to teach these subjects effectively.
But the difficulty is worth it. When every voice is heard, we are all richer for it.
I have been trying to formulate a satisfactory answer to this question for as long as I have been in education. I have been involved in K-12 classical education for more than six years, including five years as a founding faculty member of a classical K-12 charter school in Savannah. Throughout that time, I have had to navigate the rather peculiar amalgam that is classical education and the perhaps more peculiar intricacies of American public education. And this question is one that has recurred, in various forms, throughout that time. Of course, depending on who puts it and how it is put, the expected answer can differ wildly.
A few examples:
The school at which I taught had some unique demographics when compared to classical schools in the United States. While the classrooms were diverse in effect, the students were more than three-quarters African American and more than three-quarters from low-income households. Most classical schools, whether private or charter, tend to be middle class—typically upper middle class—and overwhelmingly white. As can be imagined, our unique demographics presented us with some interesting challenges.
Before the school even opened its doors, for example, an editorial ran in a local newspaper decrying the Eurocentrism of the typical classical curriculum and demanding that “our children be taught our history.” This criticism was reiterated by the state of Georgia in their critique of our school a few years later, when they stated bluntly that a classical curriculum is “inappropriate for this demographic.” More recently, the members of the DC Public Charter School Board alleged that African American students might find a classical curriculum “alienating” during the public question-and-answer session with a group seeking to start a similar school.
These sorts of criticisms are, of course, not unique to the school that I was a part of. They are questions that are being raised in Classics as an academic field as well. The recent racist incident as a meeting of the Society for Classical Studies provides an example of the sort of debate that is going on in that field, as some classicists seek to hold on to an older theory of the Romans and the Greeks as the founders of Western Civilization while others aim for a broader interpretation of classics, perhaps even an elimination of Classics as a separate field in favor of a Department of Ancient History.
Personally, I have struggled with these questions.
One the one hand, I am aware of the history of classical education and of the academic field of Classics, and the ways in which both have been used to justify and perpetuate racism. There is a deep association between classicism and racism in the early modern era that continues even to the present day. Advocates of classical education often reiterate the racist arguments of their nineteenth-century forebears without even realizing that they are doing so. At the opening of our school, one prominent advocate of classical education spoke about the idea of “becoming fully human,” an idea with roots in classical humanism, but with some very troubling associations in south Georgia.
More than that, most classical schools seem like some sort of bizarre Victorian revivalism, idealizing the “tougher” educational practices of the a century ago. They seek to model themselves on whatever was done in schools before the influence of John Dewey, taking no account of the significantly changed world and changed United States that have been brought about by technology and globalization.
The most troubling aspect of the rhetoric and practice of contemporary K-12 classical education, I think, is the constant talk of the Platonic trinity of the Good, the True, and the Beautiful coupled with an emphasis on the Western canon. Each of these things on their own seems to me to be a good thing. I think it is good to want students to know what is virtuous and right, to seek the truth, and to recognize and appreciate beauty. And I tend to agree with the Great Books philosophy that some works are just time better than others. The problem arises, for me, when these two ideas are coupled. When a classical school proclaims that they guide students to Truth, Goodness, and Beauty and then provide a reading list which consists entirely of authors from one rather small peninsula (that is, Europe), this is problematic. The not-too-subtle implication is that India, China, Africa—the whole rest of the world—have somehow fallen short of the Absolute, the Best, the Greatest. I agree with the DC Public Charter School Board; such a curriculum is indeed “alienating” for students of color—for any student, to be quite honest.
One the other hand, however, I think that the findings of E. D. Hirsch, author of Cultural Literacy, have not been sufficiently taken into account by the critics of classical education, nor by the educational establishment as a whole. There has been enough discussion of Hirsch’s bestseller since it was published in the mid-1980s, and I don’t want to rehash the debate. But I can say with absolute certainty that my own experience has confirmed Hirsch’s findings for me.
After introductions on the first day of class of our new school, I spent some time trying to get a sense of what my students already knew so that I can build on their prior knowledge. I asked a series of what I thought were rather simple questions that any sixth-grade American student should know: Who wrote the Declaration of Independence? Can anyone name and point to all seven continent on the map of the world over here? What is this building called (pointing to my poster of the Parthenon)? Does anyone know who the first emperor of the Roman Empire was? After a moment of silence: Has anyone heard of the Roman Empire before? Silence.
This is disturbing. This should be disturbing to anyone reading this. Not one of my 50 sixth-graders could identify Thomas Jefferson as the author of the Declaration of Independence; could name and point to North and South America, Asia, Europe, Africa, Australia, and Antarctica on a map; had ever seen the Parthenon before; could identify Augustus Caesar as the first Roman emperor; or had even heard of the Roman Empire. Not one. This isn’t their fault, of course. The Georgia social studies curriculum for grades K-8 includes absolutely no history from before Christopher Columbus; that means no Mesopotamia, no Greece, no Rome, no Middle Ages. And what it does include seems more often than not to be a hodge-podge of this and that from modern history rather than any real narrative that would provide a sense of the scope of historical development in the world.
An all-European “Western canon” curriculum is alienating. However, an education that doesn’t provide a child with even a basic understanding of the world they live in and how it got to be this way is undoubtedly more alienating.
And so I find myself navigating these two extremes.
In my next post, I will continue this discussion by proposing my own solution to the problem.
The question of might versus right is one that has received a variety of answers from thinkers of the Western intellectual tradition. There are, on the one hand, those who hold firmly to the idea that a thing is true or good if those with political, military, or other power claim the opposite. This especially seems to be the case among the ancients in the biblical tradition and the great Greek philosophers Plato and Aristotle. On the other hand, more recent thinkers of the Western tradition have taken different approaches to the question. Niccolo Machiavelli perhaps initiated this movement by introducing the idea that a ruler need not use his might to attain to the right. Friedrich Nietzsche continues this line of thinking in a refined form in what amounts to an assertion that might does indeed make right. Karl Marx presents a more complicated approach to the question that attempts in some ways to cling to the older understanding of right being undetermined by might, yet only maintains this older belief tenuously and in a manner that may not be entirely consistent with his philosophical outlook as a whole. Each of these thinkers provides an inlet to a deeper engagement with the question of what makes something right, whether it is somehow the nature of the thing itself or the ability of the powerful to enforce it.
At the foundations of both of the major strands of Western Civilization, the biblical tradition and the tradition of Greek philosophy, stands the insistence that right stands apart from might. Among both the Jews and the most influential Greek philosophers, a distinction was drawn between those with power and the higher truths of the created order that even these could not violate. In both instances, it seems that this sense of the tension between might and right grew out, at least to some extent, out of the experience of injustice and persecution as the hands of those more powerful.
In the biblical tradition, the insistence on the superiority and independence of right to might almost certainly finds its origins in the experience of persecution by the Jewish people. This is true both in their civilizational origin story of enslavement and exodus from Egypt as well as the experience of conquest and colonization at the hands of more powerful empires, such as the Babylonians and the Persians. As a result of these experiences and perhaps other aspects of their experience and the development of their thought, the ancient Jewish people developed an understanding of the right as superior to all might, including even that of the king.
It is remarkable that in a time when the kings and rulers of the various kingdoms and empires surrounding them in Mesopotamia, Persia, and Egypt claimed to be gods or the emissaries of gods, the Jews placed great emphasis on the subordination of their kings to their God and his law. As evidence of this, the story of David and Bathsheba is of note. Stories of kings running astray of the rules laid down by their gods are hardly something new. The Epic of Gilgamesh may very well be the oldest story in the world and it features just such a plot in Gilgamesh’s continual defiance of the gods and especially in his rejection of the advances of the goddess Ishtar. In these stories, however, the king is often represented as something like an equal or at least justly barely subordinate to the gods. Jewish tradition holds that David penned Psalm 51 with its supplication to “have mercy on me, O God” (Psalm 51:1, ESV) in response to his punishment by God for murder and adultery in his affair with Bathsheba. This is a long way from a prayer that one could reasonably imagine Gilgamesh or another king like him ever reciting and does a great deal to demonstrate the absolute subordination of the king, as a human being, to the supremacy of God and the laws of moral right that he has ordained. While Gilgamesh and Enkidu can kill the Bull of Heaven sent by the gods to wreak havoc in Uruk, there is no might that can overcome the right ordained by the God of the Jews.
With this in mind, the opening of the Book of Proverbs is highly significant. There, the author, ostensibly David’s son Solomon, who has become King of Israel, addresses the work to an unnamed son so that this son can “know wisdom and instruction, to understand words of insight” and “to receive instruction in wise dealing, in righteousness, justice, and equity” (Proverbs 1:1-3, ESV). That this is traditionally believed to have been written by a king addressing a son who will presumably one day be king himself is important to understanding the significance of this address. This future king must learn about wisdom, righteousness, justice, and equity. It is not his decree that makes it so, but, rather, these things exist apart from and above his word and he must not run up against them. Might must become right; it cannot create right.
The origins of a similar insight in the philosophy of Plato bear a noteworthy resemblance to the development of this idea among the Jewish people. Plato’s Apology and Republic can be seen as extended arguments against the notion that might makes right in the various forms in which this idea has appeared. In Plato’s case, this insight derives from the injustice perpetrated by the people of Athens against his teacher Socrates. Having been condemned to death, Socrates reproaches those who have so voted, reminding them that the right is superior to their collective might: “if you suppose that by killing human beings you will prevent someone from reproaching you for not living correctly, you do not think nobly.” While the citizens of the Athenian democracy may be able to vote to take away the life of Socrates, the truth is not determined by popular vote. In short, they are not “correct,” or right, because of their might.
In the Republic, Plato once again confronts the problem of might versus right as it is introduced by Thrasymachus with the assertion that “the just is nothing other than the advantage of the stronger.” Thrasymachus’s explanation of his position is particularly telling when the comparison with Jewish kingship and the unjust punishment of Socrates is kept in mind; he explains,
Each ruling group sets down laws for its own advantage; a democracy sets down democratic laws; a tyranny, tyrannic laws; and the others do the same. And they declare that what they have set down—their own advantage—is just for the ruled, and the man who departs from it they punish as a breaker of the law and a doer of unjust deeds. This, best of men, is what I mean: in every city the same thing is just, the advantage of the established ruling body. It surely is master; so the man who reasons rightly concludes that everywhere justice is the same thing, the advantage of the stronger.
This is clearly the thought of the ancient kings of Babylon, Persia, and Egypt on the nature of justice. What is right is, in short, what might proclaims to be right.
Socrates refutes this idea, in its presentation by Thrasymachus, by pointing out that what is decreed by those with the might may not always be in their own interest; there is, then, the problem of whether what is right is what is decreed by the mighty or what is actually in their interest, making the entire proposition self-refuting. This refutation, in turn, becomes the basis for most of the rest of the argument of the Republic, in which Plato-via-Socrates attempts to demonstrate, in a noteworthy similarity to the attitude of the Book of Proverbs, that the rulers of a state must discover the right rather than attempt to create it. Their might is not the source of the right, but instead must be used to find it and implement it. Its existence and nature are, however, not dependent upon their decrees.
Plato’s student Aristotle, while departing from his teacher in some interesting ways, continues in this line of thought laid out by Socrates. In the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle advises that “perhaps it might be held to be better, and in fact to be obligatory, at least for the sake of preserving the truth, to do away with even one’s own things, especially for those who are philosophers. For although both are dear, it is a pious thing to honor the truth first.” The separation between “one’s own things” and “the truth” made explicit here places Aristotle in direct continuity with the Socratic/Platonic separation of might from right. For Aristotle as for Plato, truth is a thing to be searched for rather than a thing to be decreed by any authority no matter how powerful.
This line of thinking that dominated Western thought on the relationship of might to right because of its simultaneous and seemingly independent origins in both its biblical and its Greek philosophical foundations came under serious question beginning in the early modern era. In many ways, Machiavelli ushered in early modernity by opening up this relationship between might and right to question in The Prince. There, Machiavelli writes, “It is necessary for a prince, if he wishes to maintain himself, to learn to be able to be not good, and to use it according to necessity.” In this simple statement, Machiavelli undermined the entire Western tradition of separation between might and right.
Implicit in his statement is the belief that what is right morally may not always be what is right practically. Such a pragmatic approach to right by those with might, in turns, calls into question the entire tradition of thinking that places the definition of right outside of the control of the powerful. If the ruler determines that the right thing to do practically speaking is not what is right according to a supposedly transcendent moral law, the importance of this moral law is diminished. There seems to be no reason to continue to affirm that there is such a transcendent moral law if it is no sense a guide for action.
While Machiavelli does not seem willing to entirely follow through on the implications of such thinking, other, later thinkers certainly did. Friedrich Nietzsche is undoubtedly foremost among these. In his Genealogy of Morals, Nietzsche declares, in what amounts to a nearly full circle return to the proclamations of Thrasymachus, that the “the will to power” is in fact the very “essence of life.” In this declaration, Nietzsche follows Machiavelli’s thought through to its logical conclusions. While Machiavelli had severed the relationship of might to right that had prevailed in Western thought up to him, which claimed for might a submission to the dictates of right, Nietzsche abandons the idea of right altogether. For Nietzsche, the only eternal and immutable law is the law of the will to power and it is this that leads to determinations of right and wrong by those who are more powerful. What is right is, in essence, what those with the might claim it to be.
Karl Marx represents an interesting and noteworthy deviation from the modern ideas about the relationship between right and might represented by the words of Machiavelli and Nietzsche. According to Marx, it is the prevalent economic forces of a given society that in fact possess the might and therefore determine the right. Marx writes, “since money, as the existing and active concept of value, confounds and exchanges all things, it is the general confounding and compounding of all things—the world upside-down—the confounding and compounding of all natural and human qualities.” Nearly all aspects of a culture, including its arts and religions, are the products of economic forces, according to Marx’s understanding of the world.
While affirming the supremacy of the economic forces over all other aspects of human life, however, Marx also sees the injustice of the unequal distribution of wealth caused by capitalist economics and, while positing an inevitability to the end of the capitalist system, also seeks to lay out the program for an end to capitalism and the transformation into a communist social and economic system. The introduction of the ideas of injustice, inequality, and the possibility that an economic system can be dehumanizing, all things that Marx claims of the capitalist system, however, introduces a degree of incoherence into Marx’s philosophy. If indeed right is determined by the might of the impersonal economic forces of the time, an appeal to a universal moral law of justice and equality as well as an innate human nature implied by Marx’s critique have no place of origin or philosophical foundations that fit within the Marxist paradigm. Marx attempts to appeal to a universal and transcendent right while giving it no place to perch or operate within his system of thought, thereby rendering his philosophy incorrectly inconsistent. In his attempt to reconcile the ancient and modern views on the relationship of might to right, Marx creates the conditions for a refutation of his philosophy.
While Marx’s philosophy is internally incoherent and Plato’s refutation of Thrasymachus stands as a solid rebuttal of the thought of Machiavelli and Nietzsche on the question, there remains what seems to be a lingering problem in the thought of both the biblical and Greek philosophical traditions on the matter of might versus right. This problem is that in attempting to place right in a superior position to might, both traditions found it necessary to appeal to a superior might as the source of right. In the case of the biblical tradition this is the God of Israel and in the case of the Greek philosophical tradition this is more ambiguously pointed to as the realm of the Forms or, in Aristotle’s philosophy, some other vaguely defined realm of transcendent truth and, importantly, superior power. In both traditions, it is posited that right is determined above the level of human might but that this right is also enforced either through the direct activity of God upon the world and through the laws that are written into the nature of the world. Whichever of these two alternatives one looks to, it is the case that right is determined by might, though that might is utterly transcendent to the might of any human ruler. It would seem, then, that might indeed makes right, though this might is not the might of kings or democratic assemblies but rather the might of an Almighty God or a universal truth.
For the moment, however, the Chorus of the Women of Canterbury express their assent. While “a Te Deum is sung in Latin by a choir in the distance,” the Women sing the praises of God in the newly renewed significance of the symbols which populate the created order:
We praise Thee, O God, for Thy glory displayed in all the creatures of the earth,
In the snow, in the rain, in the wind, in the storm; in all of Thy creatures, both hunters and hunted.
For all things exist only as seen by Thee, only as known by Thee, all things exist
Only in Thy light, and Thy glory is declared even in that which denies Thee; the darkness declares the glory of light.[i]
God had brought the “light” by which all else is illuminated and understood, and it is seen, in turn, that all things point to God as symbols of his “glory.” “All things affirm Thee in living,” they continue, but it is man, as homo significans, who “must consciously praise Thee.”[ii] It is man, however, as the symbolling and worshipping animal, that creates the signification and praise of things in the natural world.[iii] And it is “the blood of Thy martyrs and saints” which “shall enrich the earth, shall create the holy places.”[iv] The blood of the martyrs, a sharing in and a renewal of the blood of Christ in the Eucharist, is a transubstantiation of the ennui of the waste land to “the life of significant soil.”[v] With the Women of Canterbury, writes Gardner, “we pass . . . through horror, out of boredom, into glory.”[vi]
The final fusion of signifier and signified into a single reality comes in the final words, of the play, a prayer spoken by the Women of Canterbury:
Lord, have mercy upon us.
Christ, have mercy upon us.
Lord, have mercy upon us.
Blessed Thomas, pray for us.[vii]
In the end, Thomas’s name is prayed alongside that of Christ in a litany of supplicatory prayer. In his 1950 lectures on Poetry and Drama at Harvard University, Eliot said,
It is ultimately the function of art, in imposing a credible order upon ordinary reality, and thereby eliciting some perception of an order in reality, to bring us to a condition of serenity, stillness and reconciliation; and then leave us, as Virgil left Dante, to proceed toward a region where that guide can avail us no farther.[viii]
This is, of course, the point to which this prayer to Thomas as a saint now brings the audience/congregation. Words are once again unable to adequately express. Their lack of expressiveness, however, does not arise from the lack of “truth” or lack of a “transcendental signified.” Rather, it is because the symbols are, for a moment, no longer necessary and so are fused with the reality, as the Eucharist is simultaneously the symbol and real presence of the Body and Blood of Christ. But now those who have partaken must re-enter the world. In the words of the Mass, “Ite, Missa est,” or “Go, the Mass is ended.”
Eliot later expressed his belief that Murder in the Cathedral had failed because of its archaic setting.[ix] He seems, however, to have been an unduly harsh critic of his own work. In the same lectures, he expressed the goal of “bring[ing] poetry into the world in which the audience lives and to which it returns when it leaves the theatre; not to transport the audience into some imaginary world totally unlike its own, an unreal world in which poetry is tolerated.”[x] The archaic setting of Murder in the Cathedral, however, is not necessarily a barrier between it and the accomplishment of this goal of imbuing common language with beauty and meaning.[xi] Especially through the use of Eucharistic imagery, Eliot accomplished his goal of the redemption of language, and therefore of communication and significance in human existence, in Murder in the Cathedral. The Mass itself, upon which so much of the structure of the drama relies, is not itself insufficient because of its archaism. Rather, it, like the drama, conveys the character of timelessness in the maintenance of its traditional settings and forms. It is, in short, incarnational, an in-breaking of the eternal and the divine into the temporal and material order, thereby revealing the symbolic nature of the material order which, in turn, points to the very light by which it is revealed.
[i] Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral, 220.
[iii] James Olney, “Four Quartets: ‘Folded in a Single Party’,” in T. S. Eliot: Modern Critical Views, ed. Harold Bloom (New York: Chelsea House Publishers, 1985), 38.
[iv] Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral, 221.
[v] Ibid., V.50.
[vi] Gardner, 138.
[vii] Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral, 221.
[viii] T. S. Eliot, Poetry and Drama (London: Faber and Faber, 1950), 35.
[ix] Ibid., 23.
[x] Ibid., 27.
[xi] Nancy D. Hargrove, “T.S. Eliot and and the Parisian Theatre World, 1910–1911,” South Atlantic Review 66, no. 4 (Autumn 2001): 36.
The Knights who now enter to kill Thomas behave as personifications of this lack of significance. As the Priest notes in his warning to Thomas,
these are not men, these come not as men come, but
Like maddened beasts. They come not like men, who
Respect the sanctuary, who kneel to the Body of Christ,
But like beasts.[i]
They have lost their humanity because they have lost their ability to see signification; they are no longer, in the terminology of Roland Barthes, man the “meaning-maker, homo significans.”[ii] Through the renunciation of the symbolic, the Knights have renounced their own humanity, their identity as the symboling creature, and so have become directly identified with animals. “Men who have emptied themselves—for ‘a soul cannot be possessed of the divine union, until it has divested itself of the love of created beings”—are entitled to hope for this metamorphosis of symbols,” writes Hugh Kenner, citing the quotation from St. John of the Cross used by Eliot in his Sweeney Agonistes.[iii] “For the empty men who parody those saints it is only a hope, and a forlorn one.” Eliot uses their own drunken words against them to reinforce the point:
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Are you marked with the mark of the beast?
Come down Daniel to the lions’ den,
Come down Daniel and join in the feast.[iv]
All of their imagery is the imagery of animals. In a blasphemous mockery of the Eucharist, they sing about being “washed in the blood of the Lamb” (Revelation 7:14), as they will be spattered with the blood of Thomas when they kill them. “The mark of the beast,” another image from the Revelation (13:16), functions as an inversion of “the Blood of the Lamb” which marks the faithful. Finally, they identify themselves with the lions to whom Darius ordered the biblical prophet Daniel to be fed (Daniel 6:16).
Thomas, however, once again restores the correct signification of the symbols, insisting, “It is the just man who / Like a bold lion, should be without fear.”[v] And once again this resignification is accomplished through the Eucharist, with which he identifies his own blood which the Knights are about to spill:
This is the sign of the Church always,
The sign of blood. Blood for blood.
His blood given to buy my life,
My blood given to pay for His death,
My death for His death.[vi]
Thomas drives home this identification of his death with the sacrifice of Christ and the Eucharist, and therefore the identification of the entire drama with the liturgy, by reciting a prayer reminiscent of those said during the lavabo, the ritual washing of the priest’s hands in the Mass just before the consecration of the Eucharist. Thomas prays, “Now to Almighty God, to the Blessed Mary ever Virgin, to the blessed John the Baptist, the holy apostles Peter and Paul, to the blessed martyr Denys, and to all the Saints, I commend my cause and that of the Church.”[vii] Only the inclusion of St. Denys, an early Christian bishop of Paris who was martyred in the third century, sets Thomas’s prayer apart from its model in the Mass.
The Women of Canterbury continue this theme of washing in their chorus of reaction to the Knights’ slaying of Thomas. In a confused cacophony of approval and horror they implore the Knights to wash away the symbolism that the world has taken on: “Clear the air! clean the sky! wash the wind! take the stone from the stone, take the skin from the arm, take the muscle from the bone, and wash them. Wash the stone, wash the bone, wash the brain, wash the soul, wash them wash them!”[viii] This washing away of symbolism and significance, however, is not accomplished by the death of Becket, but by the speeches of the Knights following their murderous act.
Immediately upon killing Thomas, with his blood still on their hands, the Knights turn to the audience, once again, as did Thomas in his Christmas sermon, drawing the observer into the action. Now, however, the audience is being pulled in the opposite direction. Whereas Thomas’s sermon is intended to draw them into the liturgical element of the drama, to bring about participation in the ritual renewal of the Incarnational and the Eucharistic, the Knights’ speeches are an attempt to persuade the audience away from the liturgical, and therefore away from significance, to reduce the drama to mere entertainment and spectacle. “The Archbishop had to be put out of the way,” the Second Knight argues.[ix] “No one regrets the necessity of violence more than we do,” adds the Third Knight.[x] “Unhappily, there are times when violence is the only way in which social justice can be secured.” The Knights’ words and arguments are Eliot’s parody of modern political debate, a contrast to the liturgical poetry of Thomas.[xi] Being addressed to the audience, the Knights’ speeches are not merely technical devices internal to the poetry, however. Murder in the Cathedral is, after all, a ritual drama. Drama and ritual are interactive in their essence.[xii] In one of the earliest descriptions of the Mass, written near the middle of the second century, St. Justin Martyr elucidates among the essentials of Christian liturgy that “all the people have expressed their assent” to the Eucharistic prayers of the priest.[xiii] The Mass, then, is not merely observed, but participated in. The Knights’ speeches are one last attempt to draw away the participation of the audience, to render the Eucharist impossible by removing the assent of the people. The Knights’ speeches are also a reminder and a challenge, like Thomas’s earlier words to the Chorus, that the audience must shortly venture back out into the waste land, that what they have experienced in the ritual and in the drama will eventually be only a faint memory.
[ii] Allan Johnston, “Identity, Inclusion, Ethics, Values: Potentials of the “Literacy Event”” Journal of the Philosophical Study of Education 1 (2011): 86.
[iii] Hugh Kenner, “Hugh Kenner on the Hollow Men as Lost Souls,” in T. S. Eliot, ed. Harold Bloom (Broomall: Chelsea House Publishers, 1999), 67.
[iv] Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral, 212.
[v] Ibid., 213.
[viii] Ibid., 214.
[ix] Ibid., 215.
[x] Ibid., 217.
[xi] Carol H. mith, T.S. Eliot’s Dramatic Theory and Practice, From Sweeney Agonistes to The Elder Statesman (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1963), 102.
[xii] Umberto Eco, “Semiotics of Theatrical Performance,” The Drama Review: TDR 21, no. 1 (March 1977): 117.
[xiii] Justin Martyr, The First Apology, in The Apostolic Fathers, ed. Roberts and Donaldson, ch. LXV.
It is the presence of Thomas which has brought meaning and significance to what has been there all along. The earth and the sky are no longer the flat, insignificant facts they once were; they have become symbols which point to a higher truth in which all symbols are unified and from which each derives its significance. “Now is the meaning plain,” proclaims Thomas.[i]
Much has been made of Eliot’s inspiration by Jessie L. Weston’s From Ritual to Romance and James G. Frazer’s Golden Bough because of his citation of them in the notorious notes appended to the end of The Waste Land, in which Eliot assures his readers that “anyone who is acquainted with these works will immediately recognise in the poem certain references to vegetation ceremonies.”[ii] There can be little doubt that these and similar influences remained important to Eliot throughout his life. Eliot’s assertion in his lectures on The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism delivered at Harvard University in 1932–1933 that “poetry begins . . . with a savage beating a drum in a jungle,” for example, echoes James G. Frazier’s summative statement on his own work that “when all is said and done our resemblances to the savage are still far more numerous than our differences from him” and indeed many of our instincts and drives are still his.[iii] The later influence of historian and cultural theorist Christopher Dawson, however, has been less often acknowledged and discussed. Dawson, who wrote occasionally for Eliot’s periodical The Criterion, is cited several times by Eliot in the latter’s Idea of a Christian Society (1939) and highlighted by Eliot in the preface to Notes towards the Definition of Culture (1948) as one of three authors to whom he owed “a particular debt” for his own ideas.[iv]
It is Dawson’s influence upon Eliot, however, which makes it possible to say that Murder in the Cathedral is a re-presentation of the central myth of Christian culture.[v] Added to Eliot’s earlier studies of the myth of the dying and rising vegetative god were Dawson’s insights concerning “the existence of this specifically religious need in primitive man—in other words, the naturalness of the religious attitude.”[vi] According to Dawson, “primitive agriculture was in fact a kind of liturgy” which arose out of the incipient religious orientation of early man.[vii] “It is even possible,” writes Dawson, “that agriculture and the domestication of animals” which enabled the emergence of culture among early humans “were exclusively religious in their beginnings, and had their origin in the ritual observation and imitation of the processes of nature which is so characteristic of this type of religion.”[viii] Dawson held that his theory of religion as the primary motivating factor in culture applied to the modern West as well, positing that “the reconstitution of Western civilization” following the collapse of the Roman Empire “was due to the coming of Christianity” and its effects on society, beginning with the family.[ix] Eliot’s notion that the culture of a people is “the incarnation (so to speak) of the religion of a people” is essentially an extension of Dawson’s theories.[x] Dawson’s theories also enabled Eliot to identify the “Culture Hero” with the “Vegetation God,” as he does with Becket in Murder in the Cathedral, rather than to separate them as Weston had.[xi] It is in Eliot’s Dawson-inspired insistence on the link between religion and culture that Eliot’s semiotics are founded.[xii] And it is here that any analysis of the semiotic aspects of Eliot’s poetry must begin.[xiii]
Meditating on a number of symbols, Eliot writes in the Dry Salvages:
To communicate with Mars, converse with spirits,
To report the behaviour of the sea monster,
Describe the horoscope, haruspicate or scry,
Observe disease in signatures, evoke
Biography from the wrinkles of the palm
And tragedy from fingers; release omens
By sortilege, or tea leaves, riddle the inevitable
With playing cards, fiddle with pentagrams
Or barbituric acids, or dissect
The recurrent image into pre-conscious terrors—
To explore the womb, or tomb, or dreams; all these are usual
Pastimes and drugs, and features of the press:
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . But to apprehend
The point of intersection of the timeless
With time, is an occupation for the saint—
No occupation either, but something given
And taken, in a lifetime’s death in love,
Ardour and selflessness and self-surrender.[xiv]
It is only the saint, like Thomas Becket, who is “obedient unto death” that is able to make sense of the symbols, to restore meaning within the semiosphere.[xv] According to Becket, speaking of himself,
A martyr, a saint, is always made by the design of God, for his His love of men, to warn them and to lead them, to bring them back to His ways. A martyrdom is never the design of man; for the true martyr is he who has become the instrument of God, who has lost his will in the will of God, not lost it but found it, for he has found freedom in submission to God.[xvi]
The saintly martyr, for whom “suffering . . . [is] a way of sharing in the passion and death of Jesus Christ,”[xvii] in a sense renews the sacrifice of Christ by once more making the presence of God apparent. Through the martyrdom of Thomas, says Helen Gardner, “the chorus becomes humanity, confronted by the mystery of iniquity and the mystery of holiness.”[xviii] The Chorus of the Women of Canterbury, and, through them, the audience, are confronted with the two universal aspects of the human condition which imply the existence of an absolute truth, a transcendental signified, and a life beyond the merely biological—as Eliot referred to them elsewhere: “Sin and Redemption.”[xix]
“The hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is Incarnation. / Here the impossible union / Of spheres of existence is actual,” Eliot continues in the Dry Salvages.[xx] The saint, through participation in the activity of the dying and rising god, makes this Incarnation, this union of the signifier and the signified, as well as of the communicator, the receiver, and the message, possible by making it real through participation. Through participating in this participation of the saint in the event and experience of Incarnation, human life and the symbols of the Incarnation with which it is filled gain their significance. “Only if the heroic has meaning can the ordinary have dignity,” writes Gardner.[xxi]
St. Thomas Becket’s sermon, which forms the midsection of Murder in the Cathedral, brings all of this into view and sets into motion its being brought to fruition. Thomas now turns to the audience, which in the play’s first performance were Christians gathered in a cathedral, forcing them to enter into the drama. “Dear children of God,” he begins, reminding them that they are themselves symbols which derive their definition from their relationship to a transcendental signified.[xxii] In this delivery of a sermon to the audience, Eliot subverts the modern tendency to distance oneself from the drama in favor of the medieval habit of entering into the experience of the drama.[xxiii] Eliot, however, attempts to restore his modern, analytically-oriented audience to this earlier way of experiencing-through-witnessing. Addressing the audience as if they were Christians gathered at Mass, the sermon indicates the impending transformations of the mundane into the holy and implicates the audience in the process.[xxiv] For Eliot, “the consummation of the drama, the perfect and ideal drama, is to be found in the ceremony of the Mass.”[xxv] Not only is a dramatic imitation of the Mass a return to the religious rituals out of which medieval theater grew,[xxvi] it is a means of accomplishing the same effect as the Mass: “effecting as end what it signifies as means.”[xxvii] The Mass is simultaneously “commemorative and prophetic,” thereby uniting past, present, future, and eternity, and has as its purpose the transubstantiation of bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ in the Eucharist, the fusion of symbol and reality, signifier and signified, in which the gathered congregation is expected to share, uniting themselves to each other and to divinity.
Thomas’s sermon reminds the audience/congregation of the link between the Incarnation and the Eucharist. “At the same moment,” he says, “we rejoice in His coming for the salvation of men, and offer again to God His Body and Blood in sacrifice, oblation and satisfaction for the sins of the whole world.”[xxviii] This link between the Incarnation and the Eucharist is, of course, a central motif of the traditional Christian thought from which Eliot drew. In his Against Heresies, the second century church father St. Irenaeus of Lyon declares, “The Word of God, our Lord Jesus Christ, … did, through His transcendent love, become what we are, that He might bring us to be even what He is Himself.”[xxix] Irenaeus’s statement was later modified into the aphoristic motto of the fourth century orthodox provided by St. Athanasius of Alexandria in his On the Incarnation: “He was made man that we might be made God.”[xxx] Notably, the 7th century theologian St. Maximus the Confessor drew upon this formula in his explication of the effect of partaking of the Eucharist upon the communicant, saying,
The power of this reciprocal gift which deifies man for God through the love of God, and makes God man for man through His love for man, making through this whole exchange God to become man for the deification of man, and man to become God for the hominization of God. For the Word of God who is God wills always and in all things to work the mystery of his embodiment.[xxxi]
Or, in Eliot’s words in the Dry Salvages: “Here the impossible union / Of spheres of existence is actual.”[xxxii] Signifier and signified, self and other, God and man—all of the separation and alterity which renders communication and significance impossible in the waste land—is here overcome. Here, one is able at last to live “the life of significant soil.”[xxxiii]
The waste land, however, is, in its essence, a place without the Eucharist. In the Grail legends from which Eliot drew via Weston, the hero must pass through the waste land in his search for the Grail, the power of which lies in its connection to the Eucharist.[xxxiv] What “interests Eliot” about the waste land is specifically that it is “the Waste Land from which the Grail is absent; nor does anyone seek to find it.”[xxxv] As such, it is a place which offers “sin and retribution, but no redemption.”[xxxvi] In the waste land, there is only the dissolution of the meanings of life and language, never their significance. Only the Eucharist makes possible the restoration of unity and the resignification of the symbolic.
The saintly martyr, as a participant in the suffering and death of Christ, is also a sharer in this Eucharistic renewal of significance. The link between the martyr and the Eucharist extends as far back as the early Christian practice of using the tombs of martyrs as altars for the Mass, as is recorded in, for example, the second century account of the Martyrdom of Polycarp.[xxxvii] In his sermon, Thomas rhetorically asks, linking the Incarnation and martyrdom, the Eucharist and the saints, “Is it an accident, do you think, that the day of the first martyr follows immediately the day of the Birth of Christ? By no means.”[xxxviii] As a place devoid of the Eucharist, then, the waste land is also a place devoid of saints, as it is the saints who make the Eucharist possible.
As a ritual drama, Murder in the Cathedral is a renewal of the Eucharistic imbuing of significance. “So thus as on earth the Church mourns and rejoices at once” for the martyr, Thomas says near the conclusion of his sermon, “in a fashion that the world cannot understand; so in Heaven the Saints are most high . . . seeing themselves not as we see them, but in the light of the Godhead from which they draw their being.”[xxxix] Thomas links his impending martyrdom with the Incarnation, and therefore to the Eucharist, as described in the Gospel of John, when “the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.”[xl] In an article which appeared in Eliot’s Criterion the autumn before the premier of Murder in the Cathedral, Dawson wrote, “A secularist culture can only exist, so to speak, in the dark. It is out of the order of the wider world of reality. But as soon as the light comes, all the elaborate mechanism that has been constructed for living in the dark becomes useless.”[xli] Significantly, Thomas’s sermon is given on Christmas Day, a day associated with the restoration of light both in the natural cycles following the Winter solstice and in the commemoration of the historical birth of Christ. The nature of light, of course, is to illuminate; light is that substance by which all other substances are made visible and therefore comprehensible.
As a renewal of the light of the Eucharist, that through which all other phenomena are understood, the arrival of Thomas and his impending martyrdom become the catalyst for a renewal of understanding. As the moment of his martyrdom nears, symbols once again begin to signify with increasing clarity. Part II opens once again with the singing of the Chorus of the Women of Canterbury about the signs present in nature. Whereas the natural cycles were meaningless repetition before the arrival of Thomas, however, now they are indicative of some coming terrible event. The Women sing,
Does the bird sing in the South?
Only the sea-bird cries, driven inland by the storm.
What sign of the spring of the year?
Only the death of the old: not a stir, not a shoot, not a breath.
Do the days begin to lengthen?
Longer and darker the day, shorter and colder the night.
Still and stifling the air: but a wind is stored up in the East.
The starved crow sits in the field, attentive; and in the wood
The owl rehearses the hollow note of death.
What signs of a bitter spring?
The wind stored up in the East.[xlii]
The Women of Canterbury, with their newfound ability to see and understand, arrive at the profound truth that “death in the Lord renews” the world, “And the world must be cleaned in the winter, or we shall have only / A sour spring, a parched summer, an empty harvest.”[xliii] Even in their fear and confusion, the Women of Canterbury are able to articulate the need for a Eucharistic renewal of signification as the symbols become clearer.
As the moment of martyrdom nears, the vision of the Women continues to clear and the symbols become ever more apparent. All of the phenomena of the natural world take on new and increasing significance. “Senses are quickened,” the Women sing as they begin to describe the various symbols they have “seen . . . tasted . . . felt . . . heard . . . [and] smelt,”[xliv] each of them a signifier of the coming moment of crisis, of the death of a saint, the in-breaking of a “transcendental signified.” The symbols themselves, however, begin to take on a certain incomprehensibility. In an inversion of the meaning of the Eucharist, the women proclaim, “I have tasted / The savour of putrid flesh in the spoon.”[xlv] Whereas the flower is typically a signifier of life and fecundity, the women sing that they have “smelt / Death in the rose, death in the hollyhock, sweet pea, hyacinth, primrose and cowslip.” At last, the symbols are totally distorted and contradictory, as the world experiences the upheaval of the impending martyrdom: “Corruption in the dish, incense in the latrine, the sewer in the incense, the smell of sweet soap in the woodpath, a hellish sweet scent in the woodpath, while the ground heaved.”[xlvi]
In the midst of this inundation and upheaval of the symbolic, Thomas counsels the women to “be at peace with your thoughts and visions. / These things had to come to you and you to accept them.” One day, however,
You shall forget these things, toiling in the household,
You shall remember them, droning by the fire,
When age and forgetfulness sweeten the memory
Only like a dream that has often been told
And often been changed in the telling. They will seem unreal.
Human kind cannot bear very much reality.[xlvii]
The symbols are a necessary accommodation. Man is incapable of peering too long into the tremendous truth underlying his existence. While the Dies Irae, a medieval hymn on the judgment of God is sung, this truth is revealed to the Women of Canterbury. The Women envision the oblivion of non-existence, of a world which is not even the waste land, but “the empty land.”[xlviii] While there are symbols which do not signify in the waste land, this “empty land” is devoid even of the symbols. It is the culmination and fulfillment of the lack of a “transcendental signified,” of the notion that there is “no truth.” It is “the Void, more horrid than active shapes of hell; / Emptiness, absence, separation from God.”[xlix] Here,
. . . those who were men can no longer turn the mind
To distraction, delusion, escape from dream, pretence,
Where the soul is no longer deceived, for there are no objects, no tones,
No colours, no forms to distract, to divert the soul
From seeing itself, foully united forever, nothing with nothing.[l]
A lack of a signified, in the end, is a lack of significance altogether, and therefore the lack of a signifier. Lack of significance recedes into the annihilation of the symbols themselves. This is the same state which is allegorized in The Waste Land by the utter desolation of the Chapel Perilous.[li] The Women of Canterbury recoil in horror from this vision of meaninglessness. Turning instead to the significance imbued through the Incarnation of a transcendental signified, they sing, “Dead upon the tree, my Saviour, / Let not be in vain Thy labour; / Help me, Lord in my last fear.”[lii]
[i] Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral, 196.
[ii] Eliot, The Waste Land, 72.
[iii] James G. Frazer, The Golden Bough: The Roots of Religion and Folklore (New York: Gramercy Books, 1981), 211.
[iv] T. S. Eliot, Christianity and Culture (San Diego: Harcourt, 1976), 83.
[v] Francis Fergusson, The Idea of a Theater: A Study of Ten Plays, The Art of Drama in Changing Perspective (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1972), 211.
[vi] Christopher Dawson, Dynamics of World History (Wilmington, DE: ISI Books, 2002), 182.
[vii] Ibid., 185.
[viii] Ibid., 122.
[ix] Ibid., 170.
[x] Eliot, Christianity and Culture, 101. Dawson himself was somewhat reticent to accept such an application of his ideas, writing in response that Eliot’s thought on the subject was plagued by “gratuitous difficulties which are due to ignoring the necessary transcendence of the religious factor” (Dawson, Dynamics of World History, 113). For Dawson, “(1) race, i.e. the genetic factor; (2) environment, i.e. the geographical factor; (3) function or occupation, i.e. the economic factor” and “thought or the psychological factor” were “the three . . . main influences which form and modify human culture.” Dawson considered the psychological factor the most important of the four and religion at the center of this psychological factor, but religion remained, nonetheless, only one, even if the most important, element among many and could not be directly and absolutely correlated with culture to the extent Dawson feared Eliot had posited. See Christopher Dawson, The Age of the Gods: A Study in the Origins of Culture in Prehistoric Europe and the Ancient East (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 2012), xxiv.
[xi] Jessie L. Weston, From Ritual to Romance (Mineola: Dover Publications, 1997), 7.
[xii] Brlek, “Polyphiloprogenitive.”
[xiii] Paul Murray, T. S. Eliot and Mysticism: The Secret History of Four Quartets (London: MacMillan, 1991), 224.
[xiv] Eliot, The Dry Salvages, V.1–12, 17–22.
[xv] Phil 2:8 (KJV).
[xvi] Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral, 199.
[xvii] Leo D. Lefebure, “The Understanding of Suffering in the Early Christian Church,” Claritas: Journal of Dialogue and Culture 4 no. 2 (October 2015): 36.
[xviii] Helen Gardner, The Art of T. S. Eliot (London: Faber and Faber, 1968), 139.
[xix] Eliot, “Baudelaire,” 235.
[xx] Eliot, Dry Salvages, V.32–34.
[xxi] Gardner, 136.
[xxii] Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral, 198.
[xxiii] Clifford Davidson, “Murder in the Cathedral and the Saint’s Play Tradition,” in Bloom, T. S. Eliot’s Murder in the Cathedral, 128.
[xxiv] Ayers, 111.
[xxv] T. S. Eliot, Selected Essays, 1917–1932 (New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1932), 35.
[xxvi] Davidson, 126.
[xxvii] Ayers, 106.
[xxviii] Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral, 198.
[xxix] Irenaeus of Lyons, Against Heresies, in The Apostolic Fathers, Justin Martyr, Irenaeus, ed. Alexander Roberts and James Donaldson, vol. 1, Ante-Nicene Fathers (Peabody: Hendrickson Publishers, 2004), bk. V, Preface.
[xxx] Athanasius, “On the Incarnation of the Word,” in Athanasius: Selected Works and Letters, ed. Philip Schaff and Henry Wace, vol. 4, Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series (Peabody: Hendrickson Publishers, 2004), ch. 54.
[xxxi] Maximus the Confessor, quoted in Lars Thurnberg, Man and the Cosmos: The Vision of St. Maximus the Confessor (Crestwood: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1985), 9.
[xxxii] Eliot, The Dry Salvages V.33–34.
[xxxiii] Ibid., V.50.
[xxxiv] Richard Barber, The Holy Grail: Imagination and Belief (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2004), 222.
[xxxv] Ibid., 328.
[xxxvii] “The Martyrdom of Polycarp,” in The Apostolic Fathers, ed. Roberts and Donaldson, ch. XVII–XVIII.
[xxxviii] Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral, 199.
[xxxix] Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral, 200.
[xl] John 1:5 (KJV).
[xli] Christopher Dawson, “Religion and the Totalitarian State,” The Criterion 14, no. 54 (October 1934): 1.
[xlii] Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral, 201.
[xliv] Ibid., 207.
[xlvi] Ibid., 207–208.
[xlvii] Ibid., 208–209.
[xlviii] Ibid., 210.
[li] Derek Traversi, T. S. Eliot: The Longer Poems (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1976), 50.
[lii] Ibid., 211.