Eliot in the Sanitorium, part 2

In which, new evidence appears about his visit with Swiss psychiatrist Roger Vittoz at Lausanne

Photo by Austrian National Library on Unsplash

“My nerves are bad tonight. 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.”

Part II - A Game of Chess, The Waste Land

These lines above speak to the mental disintegration that is part of the larger troubles of society, individualized in the poem. In most textbooks it’s usually accompanied by a footnote or some classroom discussion about Vivian Eliot, who suffered from bipolar disorder and paranoid schizophrenia and was committed to an asylum in 1938.

At the same time, there is often mention that Eliot suffered a “nervous breakdown” at the time of writing The Waste Land. He was over-committed, suffering from exhaustion, holding down his job at Lloyd’s Bank, working on his epic poem, and starting a new venture as editor of The Criterion.

In her article, “T.S. Eliot’s Mental Hygiene,”[1] Amanda Jeremin Harris looks at Eliot’s therapy with Dr. Vittoz in light of the production of The Waste Land. It seems that Eliot is less disturbed or suffering a breakdown than he is interested in speaking with a psychologist about his concerns. There is a difference between suffering a psychiatric disorder or disease and trying to sort out one’s thoughts. I don’t mean to belittle anyone’s battles with mental illness - there are many varying shades of gray.

Harris writes, “In a letter to his brother Henry, on 13 December 1921, Eliot show himself to be participating in the Benthamite tradition of linking morality and will with mental ‘hygiene’” (p. 49). Here’s part of the letter:

I have not gone into any details with mother about my health, so do not do so yourself. It is not in fact so serious. The great thing I am trying to learn is how to use all my energy without waste, to be calm when there is nothing to be gained by worry, and to concentrate without effort. I hope I shall place less strain upon Vivienne, who has to do so much thinking for me. I realize that our family never was taught mental, any more than physical hygiene, and aso we are a seedy lot . . . I am very much better, and not miserable here—at least there are people of many nationalities, which I always like, and I like talking French better than English, though I think English is a better language to write in. I am certainly well enough to be working on a poem! (Letters 493). (p. 50).

It’s not just any poem he’s working on. It’s The Waste Land, the most celebrated poem of the 20th century. In fact, while he was undergoing his “cure,” he finished the first draft of the poem.

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Recently I read a memoir in which the main character’s wife Lucy, was put into a mental ward because she had said she was going to commit suicide. The committed woman told her partner that “it was awful; . . . “to get her out, now.” She was furious for having been put in there. She was an alcoholic and was in the ward under observation because she said she was gong to kill herself following an argument. Levy writes, “She had eaten breakfast with people who were falling apart: schizophrenics who’d stopped taking their meds, people with the shakes still getting through the last stages of withdrawal. She was in the wrong place and I had put her there” (p. 208).[2]

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I sometimes wonder about my brother’s experiences, 13 years of major depressive disorder, many suicide attempts, shock treatments. At one point, nearer to his death, I heard he was acting as advocate for the patients on the ward to get better treatment, phone time. My brother always advocated for everyone, always the pastor, the shepherd attending to his flock.

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As part of my memoir, I have an entire chapter devoted to my weekend visit to a mental health unit. I will share it at some later date. I think it’s one of the most striking chapters in the book. If you’re interested, I will post it. Let me know in the comments of your interest.

I do remember having the same reaction as Lucy. I was in the wrong place. A good night’s sleep (thank you, Trazadone) had put much to right. But here I was at breakfast. One man ate his powdered scrambled eggs and told about how he had laid down on the freeway. Another told me he was a schizophrenic, aware that he saw people who weren’t there, always looking around. Overdoses and addicts and schizophrenics made of the majority of the people, all free to come and go as they please, while I was confined there for 72 hours waiting for (I kid you not) “Dr. Heart" - the most heartless doctor I have ever met - to approve and sign my release forms.

One doesn’t break overnight. We’re more like trees than we care to admit. Buffeted by storms, we bend, lose leaves, a branch here and there. But too much wind, too much weather, and our trunks will break, our roots will come loose. We’ll topple and fall.

My story is about how I reached the breaking point. But it’s also about how I didn’t break, how I found a way, as difficult as it was, to stay rooted to truth, to honest, to a moral center.

Through love and support of friends, and my own resolve and will, my own efforts of concentration, I navigated my way out of the waste land.

[1] Harris, Amanda Jeremin. “T.S. Eliot’s Mental Hygiene.” Journal of Modern Literature 29, no. 4 (2006): 44–56. http://www.jstor.org/stable/3831879.

[2] Levy, Ariel. The Rules Do Not Apply. New York: Random House, 2017.

That’s all for this week. Please let me know in the comments if you’d like to see more of my manuscript. I’m actively querying - no responses yet following the new query letter. Next week, I start with a fresh set of 10 agents and send out the next batch.

Stay safe out there! Until next time, I’ll . . .

Just keep writing!