In this piece I would like to summarize the interpretation of The Lamb and The Tyger that I have tried to work through in my IH 52 classes. Since my interpretation—and these remarks—were influenced by Billy Grassie’s interpretation and the commentary on it, all of which is at the main IH web site, you might want to read it first and then return here.
The key question in interpreting these two poems is, I think, raised in The Tyger, when the speaker asks
“Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?”
If we think about why anyone would raise this question, another, prior question comes to the fore. Lambs and tigers are extraordinarily different animals. But are they so different that we would wonder whether God might have made them both? Is there a greater difference between lambs and tigers than, say, between elephants and squid? What raises the question of whether God made them both is what these two animals are presumed to symbolize. A lamb, on almost any interpretation of the poem bearing its name, is a symbol of innocence which we—under the influence of the romantics—are inclined to see as goodness. A tiger, on the other hand, is a ferocious, fearsome, and violent creature and can thus be taken as a symbol of evil. That is how the tiger is taken in the interpretation of these two poems by Professors Grassie. Thus, for him, a central concern of these two poems is theodicy or the problem of evil in a world created by God. While agreeing that the poem points to the problem of theodicy, Professors Zelnick suggests another way to see the tiger. He along with Professor Haller, see the tiger as a symbol not of evil but, rather, of the ferocious, fearsome, and violent energies of life, energies that we might in some way draw upon and use in our lives.
One of the wonderful features of The Tyger is that the questions posed—but not answered—in it point us towards these various possibilities of understanding the meaning of the tiger as a symbol, and thus, of the meaning of the two poems. (Note that this multiple meaning is made possible because the tiger is never explicitly identified as evil in poem.) These two poems actually suggest different ways in which we might understand them. I am inclined to think that, especially for those of us that are trying to see how romantic thought differs from that which came before it, the interpretation suggested by Professors Zelnick and Haller are more useful. Thus, in what follows, I would like to elaborate upon the perspective they put forward. (In doing so, I am not insisting that this interpretation is the only one appropriate to the poems. Professor Grassie’s invocation of the problem of theodicy does seem to me reflect the concerns of the poems as well.)
The best way to see how we can understand those features of the world, and ourselves, portrayed in The Tyger is to go back for a moment to The Lamb. For the same structure of thought can be found in both poems.
As both Professors Grassie and Zelnick point out, The Lamb is, on first reading, a sappy work. Both the subject of the poem and the simplicity of language, rhyme and meter makes The Lamb seem to be something like a nursery rhyme. And that first impression is not much belied by the double Christian imagery—the lamb is a symbol for Jesus who sacrifices himself for our sins and for ourselves who are lambs shepherded by God. The poem takes on a deeper meaning, however, once we ask ourselves why someone might write it for or present it to an adult. And that, in turn, leads us to ask about our own reaction to the poem: Why does it say about us that we find it sappy and child-like?
The poem portrays the gifts of God or nature to the lamb and to those of us who appreciate the lamb. And, in doing so, it leads us to recognize the gifts we, too, have received. In Blake’s day—and, more so, in our own, it can be difficult to recognize these gifts. We are involved in the daily business of life, in which we must work, and sometimes struggle, to attain our ends. We don’t have time to recognize all that we have received, unbidden, from God or nature. And maybe we are a bit resistant to recognizing gifts, for doing so undermines our hard-edged confidence that we can take care of ourselves. We are glad to have stepped beyond childhood dependence.
Reading The Lamb—and thinking about our own reaction to it—helps us recognize that our independence is made possible by that which we have been given and still receive from others, from nature and, maybe, from God. And thus it calls forth the characteristic human response to gifts, a sense of gratitude. Is that reminder, and the sentiment it gives rise to, useful? Perhaps not for rational and industrious Lockean men and women who are busy expanding their productive powers. But the poem might be pointing us to the limiting and unsalutary effects of this Lockean view on our lives. Thinking about what we have been given puts our daily struggles into some perspective and, perhaps, lightens the burdens that they put upon us. And gratitude for what we have been given leads us to respond in kind, especially to those left behind by a Lockean political community.
Can we understand The Tyger along the same lines as we understand The Lamb? Does this poem point to features of our experience that we too easily neglect? This seems improbable. Aren’t we all too aware of the fearsome aspects of human life, of the random violence that seems lurking everywhere we look? In our class discussions, many of you pointed to the violence on our roads, the crime that afflicts our political community, the unending struggle of one group, sect, or nation against another. And you pointed to the way real and fictional death and destruction is brought into our homes by television. But, as others of you suggested, most of us actually live lives that seem quite secure. Crime and violence is, by historical standards, low in the United States and mostly concentrated in poor communities. Modern sanitation and health care has made early death far less common than it once was. (The proportion of children living in single parent households in the mid-19th century was as high as it is today. But the cause was not divorce but death.) We are reminded of terrible and dangerous things by television. But, even on the news, violence is sanitized and kept at a distance from us. Television encourages a fleeting recognition of death and everything else that can harm us. But, precisely because it is fleeting, it is also false. For when we witness or suffer terrible things, they stay long with us. (The same can be said for dramatic works that touch us deeply. It is no wonder that television shows do not do this. Who would want to watch a series that, week after week, was as emotionally powerful as the best plays or films?) Momentary passions are artificial passions, whose function may be to protect us from the real thing. Mediated feelings and sentiments, that easily come and then as quickly go, teach us that the terrors of life can be contained and controlled.
So perhaps The Tyger is meant to shock us into recognizing and acknowledging the fearful, fearsome, dangerous, and thus awe inspiring experiences that await us. But to what purpose? I think Professor Zelnick’s answer is correct. He wrote that “in ‘normalizing the world to the convenience of our dream of safety, we drive vital energy far from us.” To understand this, think of the characteristic human response to an acknowledgement of the dangers and terrors of life. It is not to seek the safe and cautious path. For, to truly recognize our circumstances is to see that there is no such thing. Seeking security above all only makes sense if security is really possible. But no one gets out of here alive. The more sensible response to those things that deeply scare us is meet them on their own terms. It is to live life fully. It is not to ignore the terrors of life, but to be willing to accepts risks in pursuit of aims that measure up to them.
Again, we can see what Blake is pointing us towards if we contrast his view with that of Locke. Just as rational and industrious people ignore what they have been given, they ignore what they can lose. They trod the safe and narrow path. They are not the ones who most contribute to the expansion of human powers. It is no accident that in the fourth stanza of The Tyger Blake has the artificer of the tiger use human tools. The power and ambition to shape the natural world, for Blake, does not come from a desire to “relieve man’s estate.” Rather it comes from the desire to build something in the world that measures up to, and gains power over, the natural forces that terrify us. The great builders of humankind—like the great benefactors—are not, for Blake, the rational and industrious but the visionaries and gamblers.