In the presence of disaster, people often turn toward religion as a means to ordering of the chaos and confusion that results from unpredictable and despairing life events. It is often the religious leader, the prophetic voice expressing divine sovereignty in the midst of disaster that calms the hearts of mankind with a hope, however fragmented, of overall purpose and order despite the destruction. In the case of the First World War, many soldiers from all sides of the conflict demonstrated belief in a divine cause for their suffering, placing confidence in the hope that each battle was a part of a holy war, a just and righteous conflict.1 For the survivors, however, those tasked with restoring the hope of their lost and destroyed world, religion seemed to provide a very different effect, if any effect at all. In the eyes of these wandering souls, “the ideals and chivalry that rode so high at the start of the conflict perished miserably in the mud of France and Belgium” (Jenkins 2). T. S. Eliot depicts this post-WWI experience in his 1922 poem, The Waste Land, demonstrating the brokenness of society, the peoples’ detachment from beauty and liveliness, and their disconnectedness from reality. The poem presents a desert of mind and soul, in which faith, hope, and intimacy find very little prospects of growth. Yet Eliot, in an attempt to bring light and understanding to the circumstance, calls upon the tradition of religion and prophecy to reestablish a sense of order and to piece together the “heap of broken images” that define the surviving generation of WWI (Eliot 22). He sets the reader on a pilgrimage toward understanding and closure, moving away from the Western disaster and toward a conglomeration of Eastern religions and prophetic voices. Through conjoined insights from Judaism, Christianity, Greek Mythology, Buddhism, and Hinduism, Eliot reestablishes the historical and cross-cultural impact of faith on the wandering and confounded human mind; ultimately, seeking to answer the overwhelming question of the age: “what branches grow / out of this stony rubbish?” (Eliot 19-20).
I. The Prophetic Call to Trust through “The Burial of the Dead”
The title of the first section of the poem derives from the Episcopal Church’s The Book of Common Prayer, in which two rites dictate the “The Burial of the Dead.”2 The opening lines of the first rite are a citation from the Holy Bible underscoring a Christian doctrine of the resurrection from the dead, “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die” (Burial I 469). In parallel with this ideology, The Waste Land opens in the month of April, the month in which Easter Sunday, the Christian holiday commemorating the resurrection of Christ, most commonly occurs. It is also the month most representative of the springtime revival of life, in which the green foliage and the vibrant flowers first make their miraculous appearances after the dead season of winter. However, for the speaker of this first part, Spring’s miracles do not appear to offer any hope for the bereavement which she feels, but instead, “cruel[ly]… mixing / Memory and desire,” remind her of the beloved bodies newly buried in the “dead land,” those who cannot rise with the new Spring life, but remain dead, lost in the earth (Eliot 1-4).
The end of World War I came in early November 1918, bringing with it the necessity to begin the foreboding process of reconstruction. The first step in such a process, however, is not bringing out the sweepers and architects, but taking the time to gather the remains of those who have died, honor their memory, and properly lay their bodies to rest. Thus, the looming presence of winter which symbolically followed, provided natural sympathy for the mourners, “warm[ing]” them with its empathy, and “covering the earth in forgetful snow” (Eliot 5-6). The speaker in this section is a self-proclaimed European citizen, a representative of the western world and the European nations which were utterly destroyed by the war. The paradoxical diction in these lines, portraying sadness in the spring and comfort in winter, symbolizes the significant crisis of faith that permeated European society during this time. The Christian proclamation of resurrection, which had once been the primary hope and belief of the European nations, does not appear to offer the same certainty after the war. It seems, rather, to have fallen apart along with the cities and the lives housed within them.
Thus, the poem observably begins in Europe, in the wake of the Great War, and in the searching, yet doubtful mind of a bereaved European, forsaken by the hope that their religion once possessed. It moves, however, with the address “Son of man” in line 20, to the recollection of a profound moment from both Jewish and Christian tradition, in which the prophet, Ezekiel is called by God; “Son of man, stand upon thy feet, and I will speak unto thee” (Ez. 2:1). The call to rise implies hopeful content in the divine message that is about to come, and the diction that follows this address alludes to works of several other Old Testament prophets, emphasizing the hopeful sentiment of a prophetic position in the moment of dejection and despair:
“You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
(Eliot 21-25)
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.”
The first line depicts the disillusioned state of mankind without divine revelation—humans are incapable, because of their “broken” perspective, of knowing the purposes of God without his aid. These lines evoke the Solomonic sentiment and the implications of life “under the sun.” That is, mortal human life often replete with greed, injustice, and pain, all of which create the heap of confusion and chaos from which humanity perceives the world. Solomon terms this life “vanity of vanities” and continues expressing, “What does man gain by all the toil at which he toils under the sun? A generation goes, and a generation comes, but the earth remains forever” (Eccl. 1:2-4). In his “Notes on The Waste Land,” Eliot directs the reader specifically to Solomon’s words in Ecclesiastes 12:5, depicting the fearful state of disillusionment after grief and loss: “fears shall be in the way…and desire shall fail: because man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go about the streets.” In the same manner, there is imagery of a desert land, alluding to the prophet Elijah, and his encounter with God in the wilderness, reviving him from his own death-wishing depression.3 The prophet Hosea similarly depicts God “allur[ing]” his people into the wilderness so that he can “speak comfortably unto [them]” there (Hosea 2:14). Within all of these allusions there is a clear understanding that God’s medium of prophecy is aimed toward assistance, comfort, and hope. The prophet Isaiah records God saying “Come now, and let us reason together,” in a sense of discussing the incomprehensible aspects of life, of detangling them in a prophetic conversation with the divine being who knows the answers (Is. 1:18). Similarly, the prophet Jeremiah records, “Call unto me, and I will answer thee, and shew thee great and mighty things, which thou knowest not” (Jer. 33:3). It is with this voice that we hear:
“There is shadow under this red rock,
(Eliot 25-30)
(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.”
The invitation to take shelter under the rock uses similar diction to that of a Psalm in which King David cries to God, “hide me under the shadow of thy wings”—an intimate position demonstrating trust in the constant sovereignty of the divine, the position of a true prophet (Psalm 17:8). The promise, “I will show you,” highlights the nature of the prophetic voice, and points toward Ecclesiastes again with the idea of mankind’s lowly position “under the sun,” in which shadows always surround them, obscuring clear answers and understanding. This prophetic voice, however, promises to reveal something different from this “vanity of vanities” of life on earth, something regarding a hope after death, as Solomon portrays from the similar image of dust: “the dust [shall] return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it” (Eccl. 5:7-8).
This again recalls the previous idea of resurrection, upon which “The Burial of the Dead” section concludes. The London encounter between the speaker and Stetson occurs just after a “dead sound on the final stroke of nine” (68). The number nine is symbolic for the gestation period of a human baby, a number representative of new life. It is after this moment that the speaker calls out, “That corpse you planted last year in your garden, / Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?” (71-72). In this image, the idea of intentionally planting a dead body in the hope of it blooming in the future, reflects Christ’s parable which he gave in relation to his coming crucifixion and resurrection; he said, “Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit,” implying that a seed must first die before it can bloom with life (Jn. 12:24). This is like the corpse in Stetson’s garden as its burial in death fulfills the prophetic promise that “he that hateth his life in this world shall keep it unto life eternal” (Jn. 12:25).
It is also important to note that in this moment we see explicit East-ward movement. Eliot presents, “Your shadow at morning striding behind you / Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you.” The sojourner’s shadow would only be cast behind them in the morning if they were traveling toward the rising sun, and because the sun rises in the East, it is clear that it is the direction of the pilgrimage. This is a symbolic depiction of the European mind searching for answers in Eastern religious sources—Israel, Jerusalem, and the origins of Christianity, Judaism and, as we will see, in Buddhism and Hinduism as well.
II. Desire as the Source of Suffering in “A Game of Chess” and “The Fire Sermon”
The section titled, “A Game of Chess” opens with the intricate depiction of an extravagantly decorated home and inhabitant. The lexicon, “burnished throne,” “marble,” “fruited vines,” “sevenbranched candelabra,” “the glitter of her jewels,” “satin cases,” and “vials of ivory” all inform this image of gaudy luxury. From Eliot’s own endnotes it is a depiction of Cleopatra in her palace, surrounded by elements that encourage her vanity, her external beauty.4 The archaic sentiment of the diction also indicates the timelessness of mankind’s desire for material wealth. Solomon’s prophetic voice resounds through this depiction as well, calling out “vanity of vanities,” the reminder that all success, power, and riches are fleeting, “As [man] came forth of his mother’s womb, naked shall he return to go as he came” (Eccl. 5:15). Often, those who possess wealth and power are deaf to this Solomonic voice, and fall into the trap of unguarded incontinence. The expression of material desire moves quickly to a sexual counterpart through the depiction of the Greek myth of the rape of Philomela.
“The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
(Eliot 99-103)
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
“Jug Jug” to dirty ears”
Injustice is silenced by the power of the perpetrator, and Philomela’s tongue was cut out so she could not speak against it.5 Yet here, Eliot portrays her transformation into a nightingale as a restoration of her voice, and elevates her to a prophetic position with the statement, “the nightingale / Filled all the desert with inviolable voice.” This imagery of a voice calling out in a desert, is reflective not only of the aforementioned biblical prophets, but also of the state of the hearers. Eliot’s description, “still she cried, and still the world pursues, / “Jug Jug” to dirty ears,” implies deafness, or extreme clogging of dirt and grime within the ears of her audience, who do not hear her message, but continue to pursue vanities, either to numb themselves or to gain the same power and wealth that enabled her destruction. Such is often the case for the prophetic voice: it calls and cries, but very few can hear its voice. Thus, when Eliot presents another speaker saying, “‘What is that noise?’ / The wind under the Door,” it appears almost a reaction to the sound of the nightingale calling out in the desert where these listeners abide (117-118). Yet, again, they do not hear the voice of prophesy, of justice, of restorative hope. Rather they hear “wind,” the meaningless sound of “nothing” (118, 120). This again evokes the voice of Solomon who expresses that the relentless pursuit of selfish desires is equivalent to “grasping for the wind” (Eccl. 1:14).
The metaphor of chess, as Eliot notes, is a reference to Thomas Middleton’s early seventeenth-century play, Women Beware Women.6 In this tragedy, the characters play a game of chess, which is a trope for the treachery, deceit, and selfish ambition of their own lives that all end in murders of jealousy and revenge.7 Like Middleton, Eliot relates playing chess to the nature of humanity, to the desires which drive mankind to commit atrocities, like the events that initiated the Great War. Yet he looks upon the metaphor with a prophetic eye, one that can see beyond the immediate present, and thus depicts it simply as an activity which marks the passage of time, and has marked it throughout history. His speaker states: “‘What shall we ever do?’ / The hot water at ten. / And if it rains, a closed car at four. / And we shall play a game of chess” (134-137). This depicts a monotonous life with scheduled time for activities which are inherently designed to make time pass faster. Eliot’s subsequent continual repetition of the statement “HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME,” highlights the brevity of life, and the frivolity of all matters that seem so significant to the prophetically-deaf, desire-driven, and desert ears. This announcement repeatedly interrupts a conversation laden with betrayal, deceit, anger, and discontent between two women, very reflective of the lady characters in Middleton’s play. Thus, through this section, it appears that Eliot presents an enlightening message to the east-ward sojourner, explaining that self-serving desires ultimately consume mankind, not the other way around, and render their victims deaf to prophetic admonishment and hope. This conclusion, then, evokes another Eastern voice—that of the Buddha, his teaching which connects sensory desires to suffering.
The section title, “The Fire Sermon” is taken directly from the Buddhist scripture in which the Enlightened One instructs his disciples on the importance of severing the tie between the senses and the desires which they elicit. The Buddha states that a metaphorical fire burns of “lust,” “hate,” and “delusion,” indicating that it is a consuming force of passion driven by desire; and as it burns, feeding on these vices, it fills the world with “aging and death, with sorrows, with lamentations, with pains, with griefs, with despairs” (SN 35.28). It is only through achieving “estrangement in the mind” that “passion fades out” and mankind is “liberated” from such sufferings (SN 35.28). This section of Eliot’s poem depicts this mental estrangement, but not through nirvana-oriented people who have heard the prophetic message of the Buddha, but rather through desert-living people, with senses numbed by the desolation of their lives and the senselessness of their experiences. The image of disconnected lovers, the young man who “Endeavours to engage her in caresses / Which still are unreproved, if undesired,” and the indifference in her emotion; a speaker who says, “my heart / [is] Under my feet,” all pointing toward mankind’s numbed and un-liberated state of mind (237-238, 296-297). Such prophetic revelation informs the sojourner that the “stony rubbish” of the west is a result of this metaphysical fire, fed by incontinent desires (20).
Tiresias, the blind hermaphrodite and prophet from classic mythology, makes his first appearance in this section, offering an overarching, empirical perspective as one who has “foresuffered all” and who, “though blind… / can see” the start and end of this burning fire, and every side of its development (243, 218-219). Eliot expresses in his endnotes that Tiresias is “the most important personage in the poem, uniting all the rest” (Eliot 50). He indeed represents the perfect harmony of mankind as the embodiment of both man and woman, and his nature echos the Buddhist teaching that the eyes of the mind must supersede those of the senses in order to achieve the highest state of enlightenment. The Buddha states in his “Fire Sermon” that all the senses are burning, and proceeds to list them; “sounds are burning…odors are burning…flavors are burning…tangibles are burning…the mind is burning,” but indicates, in another sacred text, that the evil fire of vice in the world “has been conquered by my fire,” the fire of his enlightened mind (Kassapa). Note that he does not include sight in this list of senses, but replaces it and alludes to the more powerful vision of the mind. When Eliot concludes the section, he states,
“Burning burning burning burning
(Eliot 308-311)
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
O Lord Thou pluckest
burning”
The repetition of “burning” four times in the first line, highlights the order of the Buddha’s list of burning senses: sound, smell, taste, and touch. He separates the final sense with the insertion of a Christian prophetic voice, that of King David expressing, “Mine eyes are ever toward the LORD; for he shall pluck my feet out of the net” (Ps. 25:15). The prophet expresses that his eyes are fixed on a spiritual vision, a vision housed within his mind. With the last, separated word, “burning,” Eliot emphasizes the power of the mind, the only sense capable of overpowering the sensory desires, and the enabling the prophetic sense of faith and hope.
III. Thunder as a Prophet in “What the Thunder Said”
Following the vision of this burning fire is “Death by Water,” interestingly the only force of nature strong enough to quench consuming flames. It appears to represent the peace and tranquility of a liberated mind, a mind with eyes on a spiritual anchor set high above the natural perspective of humanity—a prophetic perspective. Yet, in the fifth and final section of the poem, Eliot returns his reader once again to the scenery of a parched desert, where “there is no water,” and the inhabitants endure unbearable thirst (359). Here, Eliot evokes imagery from the Mosaic scene of producing water from a dry rock during the Israelites’ journey through the desert:
“Here is no water but only rock
(Eliot 331-334)
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water”
The statement, “Here is no water but only rock” portrays a perspective that is void of both faith and hope, and that does not hear the prophetic voice of Moses calling the Israelites to trust in divine purpose and provision; and Eliot leaves it as such. He captures only the Israelites’ sentiments prior to the miracle of water bursting from the rock, in which they could only perceive an “evil place…no place of seed, or of figs, or of vines, or of pomegranates; neither…any water to drink” (Num. 20:5). With this vision, it is merely a barren waste land. However, to prophetic eyes, it is a place of hope and divine revelation. The imagery of mountains in the second two lines indicates prophetic positioning; and the “road winding above among the mountains” portrays a prophet’s journey. In Christian and Jewish sacred texts, mountains are often the places where man encounters God, and receives divine enlightenment. The biblical prophet, Elijah, was called by God to “Go forth and stand upon the mount before the LORD” (1 King. 19:11). In this prophetic moment, a series of terrifying natural phenomena occur back-to-back before the prophet’s eyes, each powerful but void of meaning: “after the wind an earthquake; but the LORD was not in the earthquake: And after the earthquake a fire; but the LORD was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice” (1 King.19:11-12). Here, the voice of God revealed to a prophet is defined as “still” and “small,” and Eliot uses similar language in his poem to mirror this prophetic moment and to define the hopeful voice of thunder as prophetic as well:
“After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
(Eliot 322-327)
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and palace and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains”
The sound of “thunder…over distant mountains” would be small and audible only through intentional listening, similar to the small voice in Elijah’s revelation. The linguistic similarity between these two passages indicates a significant connection, both of which reveal the voice of God and hope to be subtle, yet also inherently powerful. Although the thunder is distant, it is no less powerful, and it always indicates the coming of rain, foretelling satiation, restoration, and the renewal of life.
Recalling the theme of resurrection from the first section, Eliot reestablishes this notion with the scene in which a mysterious person walks alongside two others:
“Who is the third who walks always beside you?
(Eliot 360-364)
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded”
In the Gospel of Luke, directly after his resurrection, Christ mysteriously walks with two men, listening to their confounded speech regarding “all these things which had happened. And it came to pass, that, while they communed together and reasoned, Jesus himself drew near, and went with them. But their eyes were holden that they should not know him” (Lk. 24:13-16). Ultimately, this moment in Eliot’s poem reveals that hopeful prophetic voice permeates life although the world is often unaware of its presence. This account occurs before the biblical revelation that Christ’s prophesy of resurrection had come true, and thus, his followers still abide in a desert, an uncertain state of doubt like the Israelites in the wilderness.
Yet Eliot then inserts another scene of prophetic significance, one revealing the power in the realization of prophetic voice. Just as the call of the rooster unveiled the truth in Christ’s foretelling of Peter’s betrayal, it is the sound that Eliot uses to call forth the rain which had been previously predicted by the voice of thunder; “Co co rico co co rico / In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust / Bringing rain” (393-395). After the cock crowed, Peter realized the power in Christ’s prophetic voice; similarly, after the cock crows in Eliot’s poem the readers realize the power in the thunder’s prophetic voice, the truth in its foretelling of coming rain.
The origin of Eliot’s title, “What the Thunder Said,” lies in the Hindu sacred text, the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad. In the “Second Brahmana” under a title of “The Three Principal Virtues,” the text presents divine revelation through the sound and voice of thunder:
“This instruction, which was communicated to the Devas, Manushyās and Asuras—gods, men and demons—by the single letter Da repeated three times, meaning Dāmyata, Datta, Dayadhvam—be self-controlled, be charitable and be compassionate, is applicable to all mankind. This is like a thunder of teaching…A ‘roaring sound’…‘This is a Divine teaching, a supernatural message’…Like a thunder coming from the clouds in the sky. Like the thunderclap you hear during the monsoon, this thunderclap of message comes from God Himself, as it were, in the form of a mere sound ‘Da’ repeated several times. In fact, all instruction is comprehended in this teaching. That is why so much importance has been given to it in the Upaniṣhad.”
(“Second Brahmana” 500)
Eliot directly references this excerpt at the end of his poem, as a conclusion to The Waste Land. With these divine words, this “thunder of teaching,” he introduces a final Eastern prophetic voice of the Hindu faith. Yet the voice, in this instance, seems to place a conclusive crown upon all the other voices within the poem. As it says, “all instruction is comprehended in this teaching,” indicating the cross-cultural tie between all of the eastern prophetic voices which are united in this one conclusive statement: “be self-controlled, be charitable and be compassionate.” This statement does not offer pieces of insight into the meaning of Europe’s “stoney rubbish,” but rather, a manner of living that transcends it (Eliot 20). The instruction reflects the Buddhist state of the liberated, enlightened mind, and it evokes the three-part biblical conclusion of the prophet Micah: “what doth the LORD require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?” (Mic. 6:8). It reflects simplicity, and a sense of fulfilling order, of purpose in the midst of chaos and rubble. It is through the east-ward journey toward prophetic hope that the reader compiles these many voices of enlightenment and revelation, then combines and concludes them, as Eliot does with this final voice:
“Then spoke the thunder[…]
(Eliot 400, 433-434)
“Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
Shantih shantih shantih”
In the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad, the word “shantih” is a “peace chant,” and is “always recite[d]…three times, indicating that there should be peace in the three realms, or in three ways, or freedom from the three sources of trouble…trouble from within; trouble from without; and trouble from above” (“Introduction” 31). Ultimately, it is a call to mankind to be bearers and makers of peace. Eliot explains in his endnotes that “‘The Peace which passeth understanding’” is the western equivalent to this word (Eliot 54). Yet the idea of this form of peace is both Jewish and Christian, Buddhist and Hindu; it transcends not only circumstance but also faith and belief. It is a connecting force at the heart of each prophetic voice (like the personage of Tiresias), the only force strong enough to piece together the “heap of broken images” that defines the western world (Eliot 22). And it is through this method, this perspective, this way of life that the desert can become “a place of seed, or of figs, or of vines, or of pomegranates” and full of “water to drink” (Num. 20:5). This is the subtle, still, small, and distantly thundering voice of hope that Eliot offers his broken world through the lines of The Waste Land.
December 5, 2019
Endnotes:
- Jenkins, Philip. The Great and Holy War: How World War I became a Religious Crusade. Harper Collins Publishers, New York, 2014 (See pp. 2-21).
- “The Burial of the Dead: Rite One.” The Book of Common Prayer (Online), The Church Hymnal Corporation, New York, https://www.bcponline.org/PastoralOffices/BurialI.html.
- See the Old Testament passage 1st Kings, Chapter 19.
- Eliot, T. S. “The Waste Land.” The Waste Land and Other Poems. Harcourt Brace & Company, Orlando, 1934 (See pp. 48 for Eliot’s endnote; “Cf. Antony and Cleopatra, II, ii, 1. 190”).
- See “Philomela and Ovid.” Ovid and the Censored Voice. Edited by Kerill O’Neill, http://web.colby.edu (for the account of Philomela).
- Eliot, T. S. “The Waste Land.” The Waste Land and Other Poems. Harcourt Brace & Company, Orlando, 1934 (See pp. 49 for Eliot’s endnote; “Cf. the game of chess in Middleton’s Women Beware Women”).
- See Bibliography for Taylor, Neil; Loughery, Bryan. “Middleton’s Chess Strategies in Women Beware Women.” For the plot of the play.
Works Cited:
Eliot, T. S. “The Waste Land.” The Waste Land and Other Poems. Harcourt Brace & Company, Orlando, 1934.
“Introduction.” Brihadaranyaka Upanishad. Edited by Swami Krishnananda, The Divine Life Society Sivananda Ashram, Rishikesh.
Jenkins, Philip. The Great and Holy War: How World War I became a Religious Crusade. Harper Collins Publishers, New York, 2014.
“Kassapa, The Fire Worshipper.” Buddha, The Gospel. Edited by Paul Carus, The Open Court Publishing Co., 1894.
“The Burial of the Dead: Rite One.” The Book of Common Prayer (Online), The Church Hymnal Corporation, New York.
The Holy Bible (KJV). Bible Gateway.
“Second Brahmana: The Three Principal Virtues.” Brihadaranyaka Upanishad. Edited by Swami Krishnananda, The Divine Life Society Sivananda Ashram, Rishikesh.
“SN 35.28, Adittapariyaya Sutta: The Fire Sermon.” The Pali Canon, Translated by Ñanamoli Thera, 1993.
Bibliography:
Eliot, T. S. “The Waste Land.” The Waste Land and Other Poems. Harcourt Brace & Company, Orlando, 1934.
Jenkins, Philip. The Great and Holy War: How World War I became a Religious Crusade. Harper Collins Publishers, New York, 2014.
“Philomela and Ovid.” Ovid and the Censored Voice, Colby College, 2019, Edited by Kerill O’Neill.
Taylor, Neil; Loughery, Bryan. “Middleton’s Chess Strategies in Women Beware Women.” Studies in English Literature, 1500-1900, Vol. 24, No. 2, Elizabethan and Jacobean Drama (Spring, 1984), pp. 341-354, Rice University.