FROM THE ARCHIVES: 1987 U. of Illinois Engineering Honors Convocation

With graduation season upon us, I was thinking back to my graduation from University of Illinois - Urbana in 1987.

For reasons lost to the ages, I was fortunate enough to be the top graduating senior in the college of engineering that year. As punishment, I was asked to give the student response at the College of Engineering Honor Awards Convocation.

All these years later, it's good to see that I was as contrarian, presumptuous, and (extra) long winded at the age of 20 as I am today, although I would like to think that I have become a bit more sophisticated about capital and economics since then (ouch).

I have mentioned a couple times in this blog that I have been waiting 20 years for us to begin the revitalization of America in earnest, doing what I could along the way. Although it was shocking at the time to have anyone question the impact of the Reagan Revolution (let alone a punk kid with a funny name and an Electrical Engineering degree), it was amazingly gratifying to have so many parents and students come up after my presentation to thank me for putting into words the discomfort they were feeling for the direction of the country at the time.

To all 2008 graduates, my exhortation to you (with apologies to Harry Chapin): When in doubt, build something! Providence smiles when you break the second law of thermodynamics.

College of Engineering Honor Awards Convocation

University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign
Friday, April 24, 1987

Student Response by Ray Ghanbari

When Dean Wakeland informed me last week that I was supposed to give the student response this afternoon, he neglected to mention what I was supposed to be responding to. This "oversight" was probably for the best since I was going to talk about what I wanted to talk about anyway.

The issue I would like to address today can best be described as responsibility. We students who are here today have, for the most part, 16 years of formal preparation behind us. As a group, we are almost ready to make meaningful the extravagant investment in time and effort we have made and, perhaps more importantly, others have made on our behalf (parents, teachers, and associates).

The questions we need to ask ourselves is how can we best apply our abilities to their greatest benefit. I suggest that in order for the answer to this question to be meaningful in an way, it is critical for us to be aware of what is happening, out here, in the "real world".

Towards this end, I will start with a little bit of history and a little bit of economics, then move into particulars.

During the period from 1960-70, the gross national product (GNP), after being adjusted for inflation, rose an average of 3.8% per year. Indeed, these were prosperous times for America. U.S. industry was the best in the world and had little difficulty competing in the world market. The baby boomer generation, who grew up during the amazing period of industrial growth following World War II, was entering the job market with a great deal of zeal and idealism. Their standard of living was significantly better than that of the previous generation and prospects for continued growth looked excellent.

During the 1970s, real growth in the GNP slowed to only 2.8% per year. This drop didn't really seem to bother people all that much. In fact, for the most part, this slow down didn't really significantly affect their lifestyles. As a group, Americans just kept spending like they were getting the same real raises they received during the 1960s. In these times of high inflation, it just didn't make any sense to save money. The general feeling was, spend it before you lose it.

When income fell short of expectations, the difference was simply made up by borrowing. The thinking was that since an anticipated raise was just around the corner, there was no reason to slow down the quest for the American dream. Unfortunately, when that raise finally came, it wasn't even enough to keep up with the increased cost of living, let alone get ahead.

In 1980, a new administration entered the White House, and the Reagan Revolution showed us the way back to prosperity. Since then, inflation has been brought down to virtually nothing, interest rates are sane once more, and America is seemingly standing proud once again. Indeed, what can be seriously wrong with an economy when there are now seven different types of Coca Cola to choose from instead of one?

The unfortunate fact is that since 1980, real GNP growth has been 2.4% a year (roughly 40% less than that experienced during the 1960s and 15% less than the 1970s). More startling is the fact that average real wages in 1986 were at the same level as 1969, and have actually declined since 1972. Even with the increased number of two-income families, median household income was 8% higher in 1973 than in 1983. What that means is that today, two people must work to hope to maintain the standard of living one person could provide in times past.

Another indicator of the current economic slow down, which has been in the news quite a bit lately, is the trade deficit. Since 1981, America's trade balance in manufactured goods has gone from a surplus of $18 billion to a deficit of $151 billion in 1986. Not surprisingly, in 1986, U.S. consumption was $150 billion more than U.S. production. Studies suggest that currently, the ratio of personal debt to income is 30% above that normally expected for this stage of economic expansion. It is readily apparent that we, as a nation, are simply living beyond our means.

The most distressing feature of the current situation is the increasing amount of money which is owned to other nations. Even in the best scenario, U.S. debt to foreigners will probably be $750 billion by 1990. Unlike internal debts, which for the most part can be continuously juggled and shifted around, these external debts will have to be repaid eventually, primarily in goods. A service economy, which many envision for the U.S., simply will be unable to generate sufficient exports to generate a surplus in the trade balance. It is clear that the U.S. must rely on manufacturing to deal with this situation.

It is we, as engineers, who must have a primary role in the required revitalization of American industry.

It is we, as future innovators, entrepreneurs, and managers who must spearhead an effort to update manufacturing processes to make them more responsive to changing technology, technology which is being developed here, in the United States.

It is crucial that U.S. industry be able to take the basic science advances, in which the U.S. is the world leader, and incorporate them into new technology and new products. New flexible manufacturing methods need to be developed and implemented so that U.S. manufacturing will be able to respond quickly and decisively to new technology.

As Mr. Hallene mentioned earlier today, it is the development and implementation of this technology which holds the greatest promise for increased productivity and increased U.S. competitiveness.

It is we, as future politicians, administrators, and businessmen who must aid in a reevaluation of societal priorities. It seems to me that, except for a few important exceptions, our society tends to emphasize the short term and the consumable. Unfortunately, this is usually at the expense of things like factories and education, which require long-term commitments.

Currently, U.S. corporations invest less in capital equipment than any industrial country except Britain. Nevertheless, corporate debt is up, but not to pay for new factories and equipment, but to finance mergers, acquisitions, and leveraged buyouts.

There is no question that those who are being honored today will succeed technically. It is my sincere hope that we will also succeed at a higher level; a level which requires awareness of the "big picture."

I urge those here today to develop this awareness. As was mentioned this morning, each generation seems to have a dilemma which must be addressed and overcome. I suggest that the responsibility of our generation is to revitalize and restore the promise of the American Dream. After listening to the credentials of the Bronze Tablet recipients this morning, I wouldn't bet against us.

Thank you for your kind attention.

A New Day

40 years ago tonight - mere months after the Dream was shattered in Memphis - Hope was gunned down in a hotel kitchen, losing an entire generation. Over the next decade, the shattered generation scurried back to their respective corners, wallowing in self indulgence, anger, narcissism, and fear of each other and the godless devil across the sea.

I was too young to see what was happening at the time, but the scars and the pain are still real all these years later. Those who cared the most and wanted the most for their country were the most devastated, and have had every cause to look for reasons not to get sucked in again. The bitter fear of disappointment and betrayal is still too stark to confront, and schisms with the other shattered generation factions have hardened beyond healing.

For a new generation, those that have come of age in a time of division and segmentation defined by their elders, who have only seen their leaders define America as a place where those who "look and think like us" deserve a fair share of static or shrinking American dream, who have had leadership defined by those who highlight what we should be afraid of and (more importantly) who is to blame for our fear, we have finally grown up enough to ask "Why?"

Is this intragenerational war without end what we wish for children or our country? Is the Atwaterian/Rovian/Pennian deconstruction of American into progressively smaller groups that can be more easily influenced and brought into conflict with each other the American we aspire to?

Front Row To History

There was a time when attributes like decency, integrity, authenticity, and even intelligence were things that we took for granted in our leaders. With regret and great sadness, we have learned this is no longer the case.

Paradoxically, the profound betrayal of these attributes by our current President has galvanized a nation to question how we got here, and demand a better way. The darkness before the dawn presages the coming light.

After the Iowa Caucuses, we saw the first glimmers of light on the horizon.

As I watched Senator Obama's acceptance speech with my 11 year old daughter, I saw in her eyes the power of words to raise us up. I also saw in her the joyous news that her generation will look at gender and race in a presidential candidate the same way mine looks at religion: something that was a big deal at one point for those older folks, but really doesn't make sense. Dr. King's dream was becoming real before my eyes.

After the South Carolina primary, the glimmer had grown into full light. It was my privilege to vote for Senator Obama Super Tuesday.

Tuesday night, Senator Obama came to Minnesota to declare himself the democratic nominee. A journey that started 400 years ago when the first slaves were brought to our shores, to 221 years after a nation founded on liberty for all men ignored the cancer growing in its soul, to a bloody civil war that excised the cancer but did not heal the soul, and most recently has been churning in a 150 year struggle for basic decency and dignity was finally approaching the end.

The journey's end was made all the more worthy for being focused not on those 400 years of injustices, but rather on reclaiming the American ideal that had been shattered into fragments 40 years before, and restoring the ideal of America for all. By finally fulfilling the promise of America for all Americans, a leader was able to emerge to help us reclaim the ideal of America for all Americans.

The historic import was not lost on my fellow Minnesotans. With 3 days notice, it all came together. Where 60 of us had volunteered to help with the event, 400+ showed up Tuesday. The line to get into the Xcel Center started to build 8 hours before the event in the drizzle, and snaked over 2 miles through downtown St. Paul. The stadium was filled to the rafters with almost 20,000 people, with another 13,000 people outside unable to get in.

Inside the stadium, I was struck by the remarkable joy of those rushing into the arena, and the true diversity of colors, shapes, ages, genders, orientations, and national origins.

I was fortunate to have a spot immediately behind the podium along the rope line. The noise and intensity was that of a rock concert. When the wonderful Will.I.Am "Yes We Can" video was playing on the jumbotron, it was a profound moment that reminded all of us how far we had come.

Obama's speech was respectful, intense, and the crowd shook the foundations of the arena. Afterwards, the Senator and his wife were very gracious as they walked the rope line and shook hands with the crowd.

A little to my left, an older African American woman had worked her way to the rope line. In those eyes I saw a hard won wisdom and a history beyond what I could possibly imagine. As long as I live, I will never forget the Senator and his wife coming off the stage, and Michelle hugging that woman with a loving embrace for the ages.

You Can Blow Out a Candle, But You Can't Blow Out a Fire

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I have an exceedingly poor track record of voting for presidential candidates. I am excited that for the first time a candidate I am supporting is the presumptive nominee, and has a more than credible shot at the presidency.

That being said, whether Senator Obama becomes President Obama ultimately is not the real prize. The campaign of 2008 has rekindled passions and expectations for the America we want for ourselves and our children. After 40 years of schism, we are once again rising to our birthright of E Pluribus Unum.

"Change We Can Believe In" is nothing less than the rebirth of the American ideal: many peoples coming together to achieve something larger, and leave something better for those that follow.

Senator Obama may fail or fall short of that ideal, but reclaiming the ideal will not fail.

Fitness

About three years ago, my insides literally tied themselves in a knot, putting me in the hospital for about a week and requiring surgery to untangle the knot in my intestines. Quite the wake up call (and the kind of pain I wouldn't wish on anyone). As recently as 100 years ago it would have been a death sentence (and a very silly way to go).

During the recovery period, I found myself remarkably weak. Lifting even small things was almost impossible. I was running fairly regularly at the time, so the lower body recovered quickly. My upper body took forever to come back.

Out of that experience, I made a commitment to try and keep a balanced fitness routine. I set a personal goal of being able to (at any given time) run a half marathon, do a couple chin ups, and bench press my own weight.

Since then, I've been doing basic weight work for the first time since college (and hating it).

Yesterday, ran our local half marathon in 1:51:00 (and hurting the whole way...never got that second wind). Was able to do 5 chin ups, but bench capped out at 150.

Unfortunately I've been capped at 150 for a while. Unless I can figure out how to dropped 30 something pounds, will need to figure out how to break through that plateau without more lifting than absolutely necessary.

Any advice that doesn't involve needles and fits into 30 reps ~3x per week?

Batting 0.000

Several months ago, I came to the painful realization that I have never supported a presidential candidate that has either won their party's nomination or the presidency (yup, batting 0.000). Unfortunately, I came to this realization a week or so after declaring my support for Obama.

My "out of the mainstream" streak actually extends back to 1980, when at the age of 13, I first became politically active/engaged for John Anderson in the republican primary, and later the general election as an independent candidate (hey, he was the only one that was saying stuff that made sense). Jesse Jackson didn't do much better for me in 1984, and Paul Simon (the one with the bow tie) fell flat in 88. Tsongas in 92 still breaks my heart (and I still hold it against Clinton), and we all missed a hell of a fun ride when Perot wigged out in 92 and 96. McCain/Gore in 2000, swing and a miss. Edwards and then Kerry in 2004? No we can't.

To confront my embarrassment, I sent out a survey to an extraordinarily unscientific population of people (n=11, 9 responses) selected because they actually read and respond to emails I send them, asking them to share their presidential batting average. The numbers were quite interesting.

In aggregate, there had been 12 votes for an eventual winner, and 42 votes for an eventual loser (0.286 batting average...more than good enough for the Cards this year)

A third of respondents had a 0.000 batting average(!) demonstrating that latte drinking contrarian (lower case l) libertarians with anarchistic leanings tend to cluster together.

Only one respondent (11%) had a batting average that was better than what a monkey would score throwing scat at a wall with two same-sized photos of the candidates.


For some odd reason, I was thinking of these survey results as I watched Rev. Wright's National Press Club presentation last night.

It was the capper for a very interesting weekend for Rev. Wright. His appearance on Bill Moyer's Journal Friday was remarkably intelligent, balanced, and thought provoking. His NAACP diatribe was a remarkable (and embarrassing) journey through the fun house of race "science" and seemed intended to offer nothing more than fodder for the eventual YouTube remixes. Yesterday's National Press Club Q&A was a rage of narcissism that could have only been intended to provoke and piss off "the man".

After that "feeling dirty as you watch a train wreck" feeling had passed, it crystalized for me that the election this year is not so much about ideology or policy, but is truly about generational values and aspirations. There are those defined and driven by their struggles around Vietnam, Watergate, Jim Crow, 60s Civil Rights, and Communism, and those who know this stuff was important to the grown ups in their life, but who don't quite understand why we can't move on.

When all is said and done, the events of this past weekend will either be remembered as the trigger that continued my unbroken streak of picking unwinners, or as the moment that there was a clean generational break with the issues and history and struggles that defined the baby boom generation.

I remain hopeful for the later. It is long past time to build the world our kids will inherit, and not endlessly refight the battles that a previous generation fought as they built a world for themselves.

If the former, I look forward at tossing the proverbial scat at the wall to decide my vote in November.

Remembering "The Rant"

Today is the 25th anniversary of The Rant. (NSFW if you listen to the MP3).

I was a junior in high school, and just getting into the Cubs. How could you not become a hardcore fan after hearing Lee Elia just go off on the fans?

T.S. Eliot - The Wasteland

Tomorrow is national share a poem day. Since I'm on the road, getting my contribution out a day early.

My contribution is one of the finest poems to ever grace the english language: TS Eliot's "The Wasteland"

Text is below (and much worthy of contemplation) (courtesy of bartleby.com), and thanks to the intertubes, a reading of the poem by TS Eliot on YouTube.

T.S. Eliot (1888–1965). The Waste Land. 1922.

The Waste Land

I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering 5
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, 10
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie, 15
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 20
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock, 25
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust. 30
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu.
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?
'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; 35
'They called me the hyacinth girl.'
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, 40
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Od' und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, 45
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations. 50
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. 55
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City, 60
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. 65
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying 'Stetson!
'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! 70
'That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
'Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again! 75
'You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!'

II. A GAME OF CHESS

THE Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out 80
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion; 85
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended 90
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, 95
In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale 100
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
'Jug Jug' to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms 105
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still. 110

'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'

I think we are in rats' alley 115
Where the dead men lost their bones.

'What is that noise?'
The wind under the door.
'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'
Nothing again nothing. 120
'Do
'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
'Nothing?'
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes. 125
'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'
But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It's so elegant
So intelligent 130
'What shall I do now? What shall I do?'
'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
'With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
'What shall we ever do?'
The hot water at ten. 135
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself, 140
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, 145
He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said. 150
Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can't.
But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling. 155
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.) 160
The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don't want children?
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME 165
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. 170
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

III. THE FIRE SERMON

THE river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. 175
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; 180
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept...
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear 185
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse 190
Musing upon the king my brother's wreck
And on the king my father's death before him.
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year. 195
But at my back from time to time I hear
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter 200
They wash their feet in soda water
Et, O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc'd. 205
Tereu

Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants 210
C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back 215
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives 220
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays, 225
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—
I too awaited the expected guest. 230
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses, 235
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence; 240
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall 245
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows on final patronising kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit...

She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover; 250
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
'Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over.'
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, 255
And puts a record on the gramophone.

'This music crept by me upon the waters'
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, 260
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold. 265

The river sweats
Oil and tar
The barges drift
With the turning tide
Red sails 270
Wide
To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
The barges wash
Drifting logs
Down Greenwich reach 275
Past the Isle of Dogs.
Weialala leia
Wallala leialala

Elizabeth and Leicester
Beating oars 280
The stern was formed
A gilded shell
Red and gold
The brisk swell
Rippled both shores 285
Southwest wind
Carried down stream
The peal of bells
White towers
Weialala leia 290
Wallala leialala

'Trams and dusty trees.
Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.' 295
'My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
Under my feet. After the event
He wept. He promised "a new start".
I made no comment. What should I resent?'
'On Margate Sands. 300
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.
The broken fingernails of dirty hands.
My people humble people who expect
Nothing.' 305
la la

To Carthage then I came

Burning burning burning burning
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
O Lord Thou pluckest 310

burning

IV. DEATH BY WATER

PHLEBAS the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swell
And the profit and loss.
A current under sea 315
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, 320
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID

AFTER the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying 325
Prison and place and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience 330

Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water
If there were water we should stop and drink 335
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
If there were only water amongst the rock
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit 340
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mudcracked houses
If there were water 345
And no rock
If there were rock
And also water
And water
A spring 350
A pool among the rock
If there were the sound of water only
Not the cicada
And dry grass singing
But sound of water over a rock 355
Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
But there is no water

Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together 360
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
—But who is that on the other side of you? 365

What is that sound high in the air
Murmur of maternal lamentation
Who are those hooded hordes swarming
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
Ringed by the flat horizon only 370
What is the city over the mountains
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
Falling towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
Vienna London 375
Unreal

A woman drew her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wings 380
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.

In this decayed hole among the mountains 385
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,
Dry bones can harm no one. 390
Only a cock stood on the rooftree
Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing rain

Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves 395
Waited for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then spoke the thunder
D A 400
Datta: what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed 405
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms
D A 410
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
Turn in the door once and turn once only
We think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours 415
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
D A
Damyata: The boat responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded 420
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands

I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order? 425

London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down

Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina
Quando fiam ceu chelidon—O swallow swallow
Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins 430
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.

Shantih shantih shantih

40 Years in the Desert

40 years ago today, Martin Luther King stepped into a Memphis church and delivered his "I Have Been to the Mountain Top" speech to striking sanitation workers.

As you know, if I were standing at the beginning of time, with the possibility of general and panoramic view of the whole human history up to now, and the Almighty said to me, "Martin Luther King, which age would you like to live in?" — I would take my mental flight by Egypt through, or rather across the Red Sea, through the wilderness on toward the promised land. And in spite of its magnificence, I wouldn't stop there. I would move on by Greece, and take my mind to Mount Olympus. And I would see Plato, Aristotle, Socrates, Euripides and Aristophanes assembled around the Parthenon as they discussed the great and eternal issues of reality.
[...]
But I wouldn't stop there. Strangely enough, I would turn to the Almighty, and say, "If you allow me to live just a few years in the second half of the twentieth century, I will be happy." Now that's a strange statement to make, because the world is all messed up. The nation is sick. Trouble is in the land. Confusion all around. That's a strange statement. But I know, somehow, that only when it is dark enough, can you see the stars.
[...]
Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. And I'm happy, tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.

Of course, those closing words were prophetic. The next day Dr. King - husband, father of four, courage incarnate - was assassinated outside a Memphis hotel room.

After 40 years of wandering, is the promised land within our grasp? I am more hopeful than I have ever been that it is there for all of us to see.

UPDATE: Clarence Page reflects on the promised land. Mary Lyon asks whether we have found our Joshua.

UPDATE: teacherken has a wonderful reflection on Dr. King's Mountaintop speech...must reading