Eliot’s “The Naming of the Cats”
Eliot was and remains one of my favorite poets. W.B. Yeats, AE Housman and Sylvia Plath are some of the others that I genuinely enjoy reading on my own. There is just something individually wonderful about each of those poets which draws me to their works.
To begin this essay, I have to admit that I have read much of Eliot’s work. From The Wasteland and the Four Quartets to Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, I thoroughly enjoyed the poet’s work. My particular favorite by him, though, is the “Hollow Men.” It is my favorite for a number of reasons, from the opening quote from Joseph Conrad to the final lines of:
“This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.”
The strength of these lines is immeasurable. It is mind-boggling to me how people can be so creative, even when it means being dark and pessimistic.
Eventually, Eliot’s verses from the Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats were interpreted for the long-running Broadway musical Cats. This would not have been that much of an honor for the Nobel honoree Eliot. I believe that he would have never wanted his verse translated into that rubbish. Eliot was a very spiritual man, who ruminated for years about felines. Taking his collection of kitty poems, Broadway made a play that would have never appealed to the misery-geared poet. It really gets under my skin to think that perhaps the greatest 20th century poet is going to be remembered as the man who wrote that stupid play.
According to TS Eliot’s “The Naming of Cats”, every cat has exactly three different names. One of these names is given by the family, another that is purely unique to that cat and finally the name the cat itself only knows. People also go by different names to different people as well, and our self image, the name we ourselves only know, is for us only. It is particular to each individual person as well, leaving everyone with their own unique and solitary identification.
For me, much like the poet’s cats, I go by three names. For my secondary family (grandparents, aunts and uncles, etc), I am Brian. To my parents, my brothers and my closest cousins, I am Bud. And to my friends, I am McCue. This has been set for just about as long as I can remember. These three names are the different parts of my personality, represented in a single word; one or two syllables which capture who I am at that particular moment in time. I assume different roles and different mindsets with the different name and different company.
Eliot’s musings about cats are interesting to read primarily because of his quirky, but very attentive nature. He picks up on details that no one else could have about our feline friends and their nature. There are obvious similarities with humans being shown, but really, most of his ideas are about cats and only cats.
The poet says that when you see a cat affixed, staring seemingly at nothing, it is actually contemplating his own name, the name that only he knows:
“When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought of his name:”
It is funny that a person can be so particular and focused as to write an entire volume of poems about cats. It really takes genius and creativity to focus your efforts that much. The observation skills of TS Eliot are really beyond comparison out of the poets in this packet. He remains my favorite American poet.
To begin this essay, I have to admit that I have read much of Eliot’s work. From The Wasteland and the Four Quartets to Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, I thoroughly enjoyed the poet’s work. My particular favorite by him, though, is the “Hollow Men.” It is my favorite for a number of reasons, from the opening quote from Joseph Conrad to the final lines of:
“This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.”
The strength of these lines is immeasurable. It is mind-boggling to me how people can be so creative, even when it means being dark and pessimistic.
Eventually, Eliot’s verses from the Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats were interpreted for the long-running Broadway musical Cats. This would not have been that much of an honor for the Nobel honoree Eliot. I believe that he would have never wanted his verse translated into that rubbish. Eliot was a very spiritual man, who ruminated for years about felines. Taking his collection of kitty poems, Broadway made a play that would have never appealed to the misery-geared poet. It really gets under my skin to think that perhaps the greatest 20th century poet is going to be remembered as the man who wrote that stupid play.
According to TS Eliot’s “The Naming of Cats”, every cat has exactly three different names. One of these names is given by the family, another that is purely unique to that cat and finally the name the cat itself only knows. People also go by different names to different people as well, and our self image, the name we ourselves only know, is for us only. It is particular to each individual person as well, leaving everyone with their own unique and solitary identification.
For me, much like the poet’s cats, I go by three names. For my secondary family (grandparents, aunts and uncles, etc), I am Brian. To my parents, my brothers and my closest cousins, I am Bud. And to my friends, I am McCue. This has been set for just about as long as I can remember. These three names are the different parts of my personality, represented in a single word; one or two syllables which capture who I am at that particular moment in time. I assume different roles and different mindsets with the different name and different company.
Eliot’s musings about cats are interesting to read primarily because of his quirky, but very attentive nature. He picks up on details that no one else could have about our feline friends and their nature. There are obvious similarities with humans being shown, but really, most of his ideas are about cats and only cats.
The poet says that when you see a cat affixed, staring seemingly at nothing, it is actually contemplating his own name, the name that only he knows:
“When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought of his name:”
It is funny that a person can be so particular and focused as to write an entire volume of poems about cats. It really takes genius and creativity to focus your efforts that much. The observation skills of TS Eliot are really beyond comparison out of the poets in this packet. He remains my favorite American poet.
posted by Brian at 12:31 a.m.
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