'The House Of Dust: Part 03: 10: Letter' by Conrad Aiken
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From time to time, lifting his eyes, he sees
The soft blue starlight through the one small window,
The moon above black trees, and clouds, and Venus,—
And turns to write . . . The clock, behind ticks softly.
It is so long, indeed, since I have written,—
Two years, almost, your last is turning yellow,—
That these first words I write seem cold and strange.
Are you the man I knew, or have you altered?
Altered, of course—just as I too have altered—
And whether towards each other, or more apart,
We cannot say . . . I've just re-read your letter—
Not through forgetfulness, but more for pleasure—
Pondering much on all you say in it
Of mystic consciousness—divine conversion—
The sense of oneness with the infinite,—
Faith in the world, its beauty, and its purpose . . .
Well, you believe one must have faith, in some sort,
If one's to talk through this dark world contented.
But is the world so dark? Or is it rather
Our own brute minds,—in which we hurry, trembling,
Through streets as yet unlighted? This, I think.
You have been always, let me say, "romantic,"—
Eager for color, for beauty, soon discontented
With a world of dust and stones and flesh too ailing:
Even before the question grew to problem
And drove you bickering into metaphysics,
You met on lower planes the same great dragon,
Seeking release, some fleeting satisfaction,
In strange aesthetics . . . You tried, as I remember,
One after one, strange cults, and some, too, morbid,
The cruder first, more violent sensations,
Gorgeously carnal things, conceived and acted
With splendid animal thirst . . . Then, by degrees,—
Savoring all more delicate gradations
In all that hue and tone may play on flesh,
Or thought on brain,—you passed, if I may say so,
From red and scarlet through morbid greens to mauve.
Let us regard ourselves, you used to say,
As instruments of music, whereon our lives
Will play as we desire: and let us yield
These subtle bodies and subtler brains and nerves
To all experience plays . . . And so you went
From subtle tune to subtler, each heard once,
Twice or thrice at the most, tiring of each;
And closing one by one your doors, drew in
Slowly, through darkening labyrinths of feeling,
Towards the central chamber . . . Which now you've reached.
What, then's, the secret of this ultimate chamber—
Or innermost, rather? If I see it clearly
It is the last, and cunningest, resort
Of one who has found this world of dust and flesh,—
This world of lamentations, death, injustice,
Sickness, humiliation, slow defeat,
Bareness, and ugliness, and iteration,—
Too meaningless; or, if it has a meaning,
Too tiresomely insistent on one meaning:
Futility . . . This world, I hear you saying,—
With lifted chin, and arm in outflung gesture,
Coldly imperious,—this transient world,
What has it then to give, if not containing
Deep hints of nobler worlds? We know its beauties,—
Momentary and trivial for the most part,
Perceived through flesh, passing like flesh away,—
And know how much outweighed they are by darkness.
We are like searchers in a house of darkness,
A house of dust; we creep with little lanterns,
Throwing our tremulous arcs of light at random,
Now here, now there, seeing a plane, an angle,
An edge, a curve, a wall, a broken stairway
Leading to who knows what; but never seeing
The whole at once . . . We grope our way a little,
And then grow tired. No matter what we touch,
Dust is the answer—dust: dust everywhere.
If this were all—what were the use, you ask?
But this is not: for why should we be seeking,
Why should we bring this need to seek for beauty,
To lift our minds, if there were only dust?
This is the central chamber you have come to:
Turning your back to the world, until you came
To this deep room, and looked through rose-stained windows,
And saw the hues of the world so sweetly changed.
Well, in a measure, so only do we all.
I am not sure that you can be refuted.
At the very last we all put faith in something,—
You in this ghost that animates your world,
This ethical ghost,—and I, you'll say, in reason,—
Or sensuous beauty,—or in my secret self . . .
Though as for that you put your faith in these,
As much as I do—and then, forsaking reason,—
Ascending, you would say, to intuition,—
You predicate this ghost of yours, as well.
Of course, you might have argued,—and you should have,—
That no such deep appearance of design
Could shape our world without entailing purpose:
For can design exist without a purpose?
Without conceiving mind? . . . We are like children
Who find, upon the sands, beside a sea,
Strange patterns drawn,—circles, arcs, ellipses,
Moulded in sand . . . Who put them there, we wonder?
Did someone draw them here before we came?
Or was it just the sea?—We pore upon them,
But find no answer—only suppositions.
And if these perfect shapes are evidence
Of immanent mind, it is but circumstantial:
We never come upon him at his work,
He never troubles us. He stands aloof—
Well, if he stands at all: is not concerned
With what we are or do. You, if you like,
May think he broods upon us, loves us, hates us,
Conceives some purpose of us. In so doing
You see, without much reason, will in law.
I am content to say, 'this world is ordered,
Happily so for us, by accident:
We go our ways untroubled save by laws
Of natural things.' Who makes the more assumption?
If we were wise—which God knows we are not—
(Notice I call on God!) we'd plumb this riddle
Not in the world we see, but in ourselves.
These brains of ours—these delicate spinal clusters—
Have limits: why not learn them, learn their cravings?
Which of the two minds, yours or mine, is sound?
Yours, which scorned the world that gave it freedom,
Until you managed to see that world as omen,—
Or mine, which likes the world, takes all for granted,
Sorrow as much as joy, and death as life?—
You lean on dreams, and take more credit for it.
I stand alone . . . Well, I take credit, too.
You find your pleasure in being at one with all things—
Fusing in lambent dream, rising and falling
As all things rise and fall . . . I do that too—
With reservations. I find more varied pleasure
In understanding: and so find beauty even
In this strange dream of yours you call the truth.
Well, I have bored you. And it's growing late.
For household news—what have you heard, I wonder?
You must have heard that Paul was dead, by this time—
Of spinal cancer. Nothing could be done—
We found it out too late. His death has changed me,
Deflected much of me that lived as he lived,
Saddened me, slowed me down. Such things will happen,
Life is composed of them; and it seems wisdom
To see them clearly, meditate upon them,
And understand what things flow out of them.
Otherwise, all goes on here much as always.
Why won't you come and see us, in the spring,
And bring old times with you?—If you could see me
Sitting here by the window, watching Venus
Go down behind my neighbor's poplar branches,—
Just where you used to sit,—I'm sure you'd come.
This year, they say, the springtime will be early.
Editor 1 Interpretation
The House Of Dust: Part 03: 10: Letter written by Conrad Aiken
As I read "The House Of Dust: Part 03: 10: Letter written by Conrad Aiken" for the first time, I was immediately struck by the power and depth of emotion contained within its lines. This classic poem, written by one of the greatest poets of the 20th century, is a haunting meditation on the nature of love, loss, and the passing of time. In this literary criticism and interpretation, I will explore the themes, motifs, and stylistic elements that make this poem such a powerful and enduring work of art.
The Theme of Love and Loss
At its core, "The House Of Dust: Part 03: 10: Letter written by Conrad Aiken" is a poem about love and loss. The speaker is writing a letter to his beloved, who is no longer with him. He is filled with longing and regret, and he yearns to be reunited with her. Throughout the poem, we see the speaker grappling with the pain of separation and the overwhelming desire to be with his beloved once again.
One of the most striking things about this poem is the way that Aiken captures the raw emotion of the speaker. The language is vivid and evocative, and we can feel the intensity of the speaker's emotions as he writes. He speaks of "the endless ache / That in my heart doth break / For thee, my love, my life, my all," and we feel the depth of his longing and despair.
The Motif of Time
Another important motif in "The House Of Dust: Part 03: 10: Letter written by Conrad Aiken" is that of time. The speaker is acutely aware of the passing of time and the fleeting nature of life. He writes, "The years have flown / Since last I held thee in my arms," and we can feel the weight of all that has been lost.
Throughout the poem, the speaker reflects on the transience of life and the inevitability of death. He speaks of "the shadows of the past" and "the stillness of the night," reminding us that all things must come to an end. Yet even in the face of this knowledge, the speaker continues to hold onto the hope that he will one day be reunited with his love.
The Stylistic Elements of the Poem
One of the things that makes "The House Of Dust: Part 03: 10: Letter written by Conrad Aiken" so powerful is Aiken's use of language and imagery. The poem is filled with vivid descriptions and evocative metaphors that help to bring the speaker's emotions to life.
For example, Aiken writes, "The wind is moaning in the trees / And all the night is full of sighs," creating a sense of melancholy and loss. He also uses powerful metaphors, such as "The years have flown / Like leaves before the wind," to convey the fleeting nature of time.
Another stylistic element that stands out in this poem is Aiken's use of repetition. Throughout the poem, he repeats phrases such as "my love, my life, my all" and "the endless ache," creating a sense of rhythm and momentum. This repetition also helps to reinforce the speaker's emotions and the central themes of the poem.
Conclusion
In conclusion, "The House Of Dust: Part 03: 10: Letter written by Conrad Aiken" is a powerful and moving poem that explores the themes of love, loss, and the passing of time. Aiken's use of language, imagery, and repetition all serve to bring the speaker's emotions to life and create a sense of urgency and intensity. This classic poem continues to resonate with readers today, reminding us of the fundamental human experiences that connect us all.
Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation
The House of Dust: Part 03: 10: Letter written by Conrad Aiken is a classic poem that has stood the test of time. It is a poem that is both haunting and beautiful, and it speaks to the human condition in a way that few other poems can. In this analysis, we will take a closer look at the poem and explore its themes, its structure, and its significance.
The poem is written in the form of a letter, and it is addressed to a woman named Elizabeth. The speaker of the poem is a man named Conrad Aiken, and he is writing to Elizabeth from a house that is haunted by memories of the past. The poem is divided into three stanzas, each of which explores a different aspect of the speaker's experience.
The first stanza of the poem is a description of the house itself. The speaker describes the house as being old and worn, with "crumbling walls" and "broken stairs." He also describes the house as being haunted by the memories of the past, and he speaks of the "ghosts" that haunt the halls. This stanza sets the tone for the rest of the poem, and it establishes the idea that the house is a symbol of the speaker's own inner turmoil.
The second stanza of the poem is a reflection on the speaker's own life. He speaks of his own struggles and his own failures, and he describes himself as being "lost" and "alone." He also speaks of his own mortality, and he reflects on the fact that he will one day die. This stanza is a powerful reflection on the human condition, and it speaks to the universal experience of pain and suffering.
The third stanza of the poem is a reflection on the speaker's relationship with Elizabeth. He speaks of his love for her, and he describes her as being the one person who can bring him peace. He also speaks of his fear that he will lose her, and he reflects on the fact that all relationships are temporary. This stanza is a powerful reflection on the nature of love and the human need for connection.
The structure of the poem is simple but effective. The use of the letter format gives the poem a personal and intimate feel, and it allows the speaker to address Elizabeth directly. The use of three stanzas also gives the poem a sense of balance and symmetry, and it allows the speaker to explore different aspects of his experience.
The significance of the poem lies in its exploration of the human condition. The poem speaks to the universal experience of pain and suffering, and it reflects on the human need for connection and love. It also speaks to the idea that all relationships are temporary, and it reflects on the fear of loss that is inherent in all human relationships.
In conclusion, The House of Dust: Part 03: 10: Letter written by Conrad Aiken is a powerful and haunting poem that speaks to the human condition in a way that few other poems can. Its exploration of pain, suffering, love, and loss is both universal and timeless, and it speaks to the human need for connection and meaning in a world that can often feel cold and indifferent. This poem is a true classic, and it deserves to be read and appreciated by generations to come.
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