Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning;
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
Stevie Smith
Miscommunication is a theme that runs rampant in 20th century literature, and it is something that we in the 21st century have made an art form. In this poem, the dead man is sending signals, wildly gesturing that he needs help, but because he has "always loved larking," people misread his plea for life-saving intervention as nothing more than a jolly greeting from a man frolicking in the waves.
What is interesting though, is the last stanza: it broaches questions of intention. The man has admittedly existed "too far out all my life" even when "it was too cold always." He placed himself on the edge, a barrier of waves and distance between him and those who could help if the need arose. Is he a victim of miscommunication and circumstance, or is he the perpetrator of his own doom?
To me, unfortunately, it'd probably depend on who he was. If he was me, I'd say he was the perpetrator of his own doom. If he was you, I'd probably say he was the victim of miscommunication and circumstance. Unless "you" were someone I either didn't like or someone I sensed knew it was your own fault and planned on dealing with it like a valiant champion. In practice though, in the daily nitty-gritty, I don't think I have a clue. Did you have an answer?
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