Eagles and Trumpets: The Transmuted Experience of Literature

Abstract

The foregoing chapters have been concerned with particular works of literature, in the terms central to them, and have touched only contingently on form. This chapter might be appended to almost any as a coda, since it seeks to isolate a matter of general application to the literary art. What I want to explore in fact is this: none of the rich emotions aroused in us by literature or drama exactly resembles the appropriate emotion in our lives. The emotions in art are always subtly transmuted, not necessarily towards greater complexities, but towards complexities of a distinctive kind. It is as though the worlds of life and art run parallel, always close, always reflecting each other, never joined.

It’s a very odd thing — As odd as can be — That whatever Miss T. eats Turns into Miss T. Walter de la Mare

Stone, bronze, stone, steel, stone, oakleaves, horses’ heels Over the paving.

And the flags. And the trumpets. And so many eagles.

How many? Count them. And such a press of people.

We hardly knew ourselves that day, or knew the City.

This is the way to the temple, and we so many crowding the way.

So many waiting, how many waiting? what did it matter on such a day?

Are they coming? No, not yet. You can see some eagles. And hear the trumpets. T. S. Eliot