Exile in the Wasteland

He was remanded to St. Elizabeth’s Hospital for the Criminal Insane in Washington D.C. Found guilty of treason after being captured by American soldiers in Italy in 1945, Ezra Pound was translating ancient Chinese poetry when I came to visit him in September 1957. My visit would include a letter signed by some of the most talent literary minds of the time such as Robert Frost, Carl Sandberg, E. E. Cummings, Richard Wright, Langston Hughes, Earnest Hemmingway, and myself, Thomas Sterns Elliot, asking for his immediate release from the hospital.

“Please sign here, sir.” A woman at the hospital admission desk put a clipboard through an opening in the cage around the counter. I complied by signing the form on the clipboard. “Alright Mr. Eliot, please have a seat and someone will be here shortly to escort you.”

“Thank you.” I nodded as I sat in one of the plastic chairs in the waiting room.

In a few minutes, a man dressed in white smock entered the waiting room. His dark skin was a contrast to his stark white smock, but he stood arrow straight wearing a professional smile.

“Mr. Eliot.” He read my name from the clipboard he was holding.

“Yes.” I said as I stood up.

“I will escort you to Mr. Pound.” He opened the door which I assumed led back to the patient’s rooms. There was a heavy aroma of disinfectant mixed with urine in the long dark corridor we were walking in with checkerboard tile and cold cement walls.

He led me into a small room where Ezra sat in a chair at a round table with his back turned toward me. There was a two-way mirror on the wall so the staff could observe everything we did and said.

“Hey old man.” I said as I walked into the room. When he turned his head, he appeared haggard and pale.

“Well, well, well, it’s about time you showed your ugly face around here.” He bear-hugged me as I walked toward him. As he embraced me, my escort left the room. “I was just translating some ancient Chinese poetry.”

“I can always rely on you to be engaged in something no one else would want to do.” I held him at arm’s length and looked into his eyes. While his body appeared to be a bit worn-out, his eyes still had the old Ezra Pound sparkle. I nodded, “I brought a letter that I gave to the head administrator demanding you be released from this establishment.”

“The sooner the better.” Ezra chuckled, “This place is killing me.”

“I got everyone to sign it including Frost and Hemmingway.” I sat down in the chair across the table from him.

“Yeah.” He shrugged, “Treason is a hard charge to overcome, eh?”

“I am an expatriate myself.” I smile and shake my head.

“But your didn’t consort with the enemy, Benito Mussolini.” He folded his hands in front of him on the table, “I was doing a radio show when American soldiers burst in to arrest me.”

“You do live an exciting existence.” I tilted my head. It did my heart good to see him sitting at the table across from me.

“I felt betrayed by my country.” He leaned back and sighed, “I brought my family to Rapallo in 1922 to edit the Exile. Fun times.”

“Ah, I remember.” I put my hand to my chin. “You have just helped me finish The Wasteland.”

“Ah yes, what a monstrosity.” Ezra chuckled.

“I beg your pardon. That masterpiece helped me win Nobel Prize for literature.” I tilted my head in a false sense of triumph eliciting a chuckle from Ezra. For whatever reason, I could always get his goat.

“You certainly know how to travel the higher road.” He bowed his head.

“One day, you will win awards for your cantos.” I shook my head, “You are considered as one of the leaders in this new literary trend.”

“Which one?” He smiles at me.

“I believe they are calling it modernism.” I replied as I looked down at my hands.

“Modernism? I spend my time working with ancient mythology.” He held out his hand over the manuscript he was working on when I entered.

“Modernism deals with the use of classic images and allusions. You, my friend, are the expert. No one knows mythology like you do.”

“I appreciate your deferment, but when I was at Harvard, I preferred the old tales. They made sense to me. More sense than what I see in these modern times, right?”

“I would most wholeheartedly agree with you, sir.” I nodded. “When we were writing the Wasteland, I had no idea that it would hold true to this day.”

“It was universal. We are masters of our own devastation.” He sneered, “The Great War brought out the worst of humanity. And then Truman agreed to drop the bomb on Japan, mankind crossed the line. We can no longer claim to be humane. One of my cantos deals with this devastation.”

“Can you show me a copy of this cantos?” I asked curious of his view on the arms race proliferation.

“My files are a mess.” He pointed to the pile of papers on the table in front of him.

“If you happen to locate it, please send me a copy.” I insisted.

“Alright.” He nodded, but I knew that his mind was in constant disarray. Gifted though he was, his perchance for organization was nonexistent.

“So, how are they treating you?” I asked in an effort to change the subject.

“What do you want to know?” He asked as he glanced at the two-way glass.

“I handed them a letter of advocation for your release from this hospital.”

“I appreciate your effort, but I have the feeling they relish torturing the traitor.” He rearranged his intertwined fingers. It was a nervous habit he had since I’ve known him, but he knew they were watching him closely. “I’ve had my weekly EST.”

“EST?”

“Yeah, Electric Shock Therapy.” He gave me a half smile. “But at least I have managed to keep off the list for a frontal lobotomy. That’s why I continue to be well-behaved. I won’t be able to finish my book without my frontal lobe.”

“I am hoping my letter will help to advocate for your discharge from this place.” I sit up in my chair, “God knows, this place smells worse than a barn and having grown up on my family farm near St. Louis, I know how bad it smells.”

“Maybe it’s because they have me clean the toilets.” Ezra shrugs a shoulder.

“You?”

“Sure, I am the king of the restrooms.” He laughs.

“But you are a renowned poet.” I gasp.

“Doesn’t matter.” He grunts and then leans in to whisper to me, “You know I am the torture target. Some of the staff doesn’t even like talking to me. They talk behind my back. Call me Benedict Arnold. I feel bad for him, you know. I know how it feels to be considered a traitor. I felt fascism wasn’t such a bad deal. Benito Mussolini wasn’t such a bad man.”

“I’m afraid that many people in this country do not hold the same view of him.” I roll my eyes.

“There are some people who believe Adolph Hitler was on the right track, too.” He poked his index finger into the table. A white smock man appeared in the doorway for a moment as the sound of his finger jabbing at the table caused some concern.

“If you want to leave this place, may I suggest you keep your opinion of defeated despots to yourself. Keep cleaning the bathrooms like a good boy but keep you political opinions to yourself.” I exhaled as I cross my arms across my chest. “A lot of the signers are notorious socialists like Cummings and Frost. You have a senator from Wisconsin who is creating quite a stir about all the communists we have hiding out in this country.”

“There is a difference between socialism and communism.” He shook his head and turned his head.

“I know that. You know that, but they are telling the average citizen if you allow socialism to take over, communism will follow shortly.” I point out.

“They are using fear, just like the tyrants they defeated.” Ezra fumed.

“Sure, fear is the best weapon a bureaucracy can use when you get right down to it.” I smiled, “I’m sure most of the people on the list will agree. When fear enters the picture, free thought goes right out the window. It’s when we allow people to expression themselves freely without free of repression that we can escape the wasteland. Until we can allow freedom of expression we will find ourselves exiled in the wasteland.”

“God Thomas, you make sense even when I let my emotions get the best of me.” Ezra rose to his feet and put his hand to his white beard. I must admit I was surprised when no one in a white coat showed up at the door because he resembled a hulking beast as he paced around the room.

“I will tell you that the colored artists labor under the yoke of these discrimination laws. Jim Crow as I recall.” I pulled a cigarette out of my case and lit one, “President Eisenhower dealing with some of the groups who have kept the Negro subjugated to this laws.”

“It never ceases to amaze me how my country can put up such hierocracy.” He flopped in his chair. I handed him a cigarette, “Here I am in this place for supporting an enemy of my country while the real enemy lives free to put their stain on society. When I was growing up in Idaho, I was constantly reminded of people use words to justify their corrupt thinking. We were poor and people were always willing to tell us how God favored the rich. God blessed the prosperous and all that bullshit they tried to stuff into my head about how we were nothing but poor white trash.”

I sat there in silence as Ezra stood there panting. When I glanced over, I saw a white smock standing in the door. I pitied him as he stood there glaring at the man in the white smock.

“Is everything alright here?” He asked me.

“Yes, we’re fine. He just got a little upset.” I smiled.

“I can see that.” The man in the white smock nodded, “If you need assistance, just push the red button on the wall next to the mirror.”

“Thank you.” I nodded and smiled a my most charming smile as he turned and left.

“I don’t know what to think anymore.” Ezra ran his hand through his disheveled silver white hair, “I having trouble writing my cantos. My thoughts are jumbled so I decided to translate verse that was already written centuries ago.”

“I wish I could tell you what to do.” I drummed my fingers on the table as Ezra wandered back to his empty chair to sit down. “I find that a writers’ block is the worst thing that can happened to a writer.”

“It’s not that.” He shook his head, “It has more to do with the distractions bombarding me from all directions.”

“I too wonder how the world will perceive me when I’m gone.”

“C’mon Thomas, you have earned you place in the halls of poetic honor. Wasteland? Prufrock? Classics.”

“Can I hang my literary hat on the hook of two works?” I grumbled as I crushed my cigarette out in the ashtray at the center of the table. “I am not as sure of my place in literary history as you are.”

“Me? Who will put a traitor in the sacred hall.” He chuckled.

“The critics can’t ignore you.” I assured him, “You have created a transition from the poetry of the previous century. You have spearheaded this modernistic movement. They can’t deny that. They may add a footnote on your choice of political preference, but they cannot deny your innovation. I envy you for that.”

“I hope you’re right, Thomas.” He sighed with his head bowed, “I did not become a poet for the recognition and fame.”

“Nobody becomes a poet for that.” I put my hand over his. He looked up at me, “I put the words on the page with some help from a trusted associate.”

He smiled and glanced over at the two-way mirror.

“You will be discharged from this place one day, I promise.” I patted his hand, “We will all get together and make a lot of noise until they will have to let you go in order to restore the peace. Robert Frost is composing a poem about obtaining your release from the hospital.”

“I appreciate you doing this for me.” He shakes his head.

“You are one of us, my friend.” I stood up, “But I must be leaving. I have some business to attend to. I shall return at a later date. I promise.”

“Well, you know where I’ll be.” Ezra came to his feet as I walked toward the open door. “One day, you and I will fix all the problems of the world.”

“Sounds enticing.” I nodded. “I’ll be catching a flight to London tomorrow. Taking a flight out of Dulles at ten in the morning despite how I told them I am not a morning person.”

“I can’t thank you enough, Thomas.” He embraced me as I prepared to leave. “Don’t let me die in this place.”

“Never even crossed my mind, Ezra.” I pulled away, “Take care, my friend.”

“I will dedicate my book of cantos to you.” He smiled as I walked out.

“It will my honor.” I waved and walked down the dark hallway. I heard someone screaming as though they were being tortured. It made me shudder to think that perhaps they were.

“Are you leaving, sir?” The woman behind the cage asked me as I got to the admissions desk.

“I am.” I sniffed, “Could I use the phone to call a cab?”

“By all means.” She pointed to the pay phone on the wall. I went over and dial the phone number to the local cab company. After waiting about fifteen minutes, the cab arrive and I walked out of St. Elizabeth’s Hospital.

I was grateful that I had the ability to walk out when Ezra was still incarcerated having to endure the odor and the weekly EST. We both had ideas of how the world should be run after a horrible war changed the landscape of human affairs. I would return home and finish my poetry book I had started before this trip about my cats. I knew this poetry was nothing like I had ever written before, but I had written my verse to help those who would read it. The poetry about my house cats was only meant to entertain me.

As I walked toward the waiting cab, I felt exhausted. I was tired of trying to solve the problems of the world. Happy to be leaving this dismal place, I climbed into the cab and he pulled out of the hospital parking lot.

I wanted to end my exile in the wasteland as my friend Ezra Pound was still being held there. I hoped one day he would finally be set free. Try as they might, they will never be able to confine his words. That thought made me smile.

From the Seafarer

Storms, on the stone-cliffs beaten,

fell on the stern

In icy feathers…

From Lustra

Nor has life in it aught better

Than this hour of clear coolness,

the hour of waking together.