I thank Signor Speranza for his response to my query: where does one start
to analyze such statements with which Arnold concludes Dover Beach, (i.e.
existence has "neither joy, nor love, nor light," etc. -- nothing, that is,
which most humans would presumably consider positive values, emotional balm
for the soul making life bearable if not down right jubilation-worthy at
times. Does philosophy have any interest in the phenomena of human
emotional life? Is there "truth" outside the purview human reasoning?
This poem startled the hell out of me the first time I read it, back in
yonder college days and it still a kick in the arse. Is the poem raging
against the dying of the light, or is it, in its "nay saying" back-handedly
affirming those values? Why does the poem break my heart and give me
determined courage at the same time? Has philosophy anything to say about
such topics? It seems to me that the values that the poem extols in denial
(joy, love, light, certitude, peace, freedom from pain) could only be known
through having been experienced, thus giving lie to their denial.
On Mon, Aug 3, 2015 at 1:35 PM, Redacted sender Jlsperanza@xxxxxxx for
DMARC <dmarc-noreply@xxxxxxxxxxxxx> wrote:
In a message dated 8/3/2015 12:17:25 P.M. Eastern Daylight Time,
jejunejesuit.geary2@xxxxxxxxx writes:
"the world, which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so
various, so beautiful, so new, hath really neither joy, nor love, nor
light, nor
certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; and we are here as on a darkling
plain swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight where ignorant
armies
clash by night."
That Matt, he knew how to say it right. But is it true?
Well, as M. L. Pratt once said, why are we to assume to poets have to say
the truth?
The metaphor is most likely an allusion to a passage in Thucydides's
account of the Peloponnesian War (Book 7, 44).
Thucydides (bot a poet, but one who is supposed to say the truth) describes
an ancient battle that occurred on a beach during the Athenian invasion of
Sicily.
The battle took place at night; the attacking army became disoriented while
fighting in the darkness and many of their soldiers inadvertently killed
each other.
The "darkling plain" is Matt's "central statement" of the human condition.
But Pratt sees the final line as "only a metaphor" and thus susceptible to
the "uncertainty" of poetic language.
the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
Matt's discourse shifts literally and symbolically from the present, to
Sophocles on the Aegean, from Medieval Europe back to the present—and the
auditory and visual images are dramatic and mimetic and didactic.
Exploring the dark terror that lies beneath his happiness in love, the
poet resolves to love—and exigencies of history and the nexus between
lovers
are the poem's real issues.
That lovers may be 'true / To one another' is a precarious notion: love in
the modern city momentarily gives peace, but nothing else in a
post-medieval society reflects or confirms the faithfulness of lovers.
Devoid of love and light the world is a maze of confusion left by
'retreating' faith.
One may question the unity of the discourse, noting that the "darkling
plain" of the final line comes somewhat out of the blue.
Various solutions to this "problem" have been proffered.
The "darkling plain" with which the discourse ends as comparable to the
"naked shingles of the world".
"Shingles" here means flat beach cobbles, characteristic of some wave-swept
coasts.
Thus the discourse may be "emotionally convincing" even if its logic may
be questionable.
The discourse upends our expectations of metaphor and sees in this the
central power of the piece.
The piece's historicism creates another complicating dynamic.
Beginning in the present it shifts to the classical age of Greece, then
(with its concerns for the sea of faith) it turns to Medieval Europe,
before
finally returning to the present.
The form of the piece itself has drawn considerable comment.
Critics have noted the careful diction in the opening description, the
overall, spell-binding rhythm and cadence of the piece and its dramatic
character.
One can see the strophe-antistrophe of the ode at work in the piece, with
an ending that contains something of the "cata-strophe" of tragedy.
For what it's worth, he complexity of the pieces structure results in the
first major 'free-verse' poem in the language.
According to Tinker and Lowry, a draft of the first twenty-eight lines of
the poem" was written in pencil "on the back of a folded sheet of paper
containing notes on the career of Empedocles.
"Empedocles on Etna" was probably written 1849–52; the notes on Empedocles
are likely to be contemporary with the writing of this piece.
The final line of this draft is:
And naked shingles of the world. Ah love &c
This seems to indicate that the last nine lines of the poem as we know it
were already in existence when the portion regarding the ebb and flow of
the
sea at Dover was composed.
This would make the manuscript a prelude to the concluding paragraph of the
poem in which there is no reference to the sea or tides.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help from pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
Matt's visit to Dover may also provide some clue to the date of
composition.
Matt was in Dover in June 1851 and again in October of that year on his
return from his delayed continental honeymoon.
Some have concluded that ll. 1–28 were written at Dover and ll. 29–37
were rescued from some discarded poem.
Some suggests the contrary, i.e., that the final lines were written at
Dover in late June, while ll. 29–37 were written in London shortly
afterwards.
But, to echo Geary, is [that] true?
Cheers,
Speranza
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