Repression of War Experience

Repression of War Experience

War poetry by Siegfried Sassoon

In his poem "Repression of War Experience," Siegfried Sassoon uses a metaphor of moths, who "blunder in," only to "scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame," like soldiers who believed that they would prove themselves heroes through war. Like these moths, these men do not escape unscathed, but "go stark, staring mad because of the guns." Sassoon also depicts a common belief held by psychologists of the era" "And it's been proved that soldiers don't go mad / Unless they lose control of ugly thoughts"
One such man who believed this hypothesis was W.H.R. Rivers, who treated Sassoon for his shell-shock at Craiglockhart Hospital. In the summer of 1917, Rivers delivered a talk to the Royal Society of Medicine, titled "The Repression of War Experience." Rivers argued that shell-shock was the result of rapid training which did not allow soldiers to accumulate repression of battle trauma which would later become shell-shock. Rivers believed in Sigmund Freud's repression hypothesis of trauma, where negative thoughts are pushed to the back of the unconscious mind. In his similarly named poem "Repression of War Experience," Sassoon translates this psychological theory into his depiction of shell-shock, which turns men into illogical creatures, like moths who fly towards the very fire which kills them, their ugly thoughts of war, "that drive them out to jabber among the trees."

Now light the candles; one; two; there's a moth;
What silly beggars they are to blunder in
And scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame—
No, no, not that,—it's bad to think of war,
When thoughts you've gagged all day come back to scare you;
And it's been proved that soldiers don't go mad
Unless they lose control of ugly thoughts
That drive them out to jabber among the trees.


Now light your pipe; look, what a steady hand.
Draw a deep breath; stop thinking; count fifteen,
And you're as right as rain ...
Why won't it rain? ...
I wish there'd be a thunder-storm to-night,
With bucketsful of water to sluice the dark,
And make the roses hang their dripping heads.

Books; what a jolly company they are,
Standing so quiet and patient on their shelves,
Dressed in dim brown, and black, and white, and green,
And every kind of colour. Which will you read?
Come on; O do read something; they're so wise.
I tell you all the wisdom of the world
Is waiting for you on those shelves; and yet
You sit and gnaw your nails, and let your pipe out,
And listen to the silence: on the ceiling
There's one big, dizzy moth that bumps and flutters;
And in the breathless air outside the house
The garden waits for something that delays.
There must be crowds of ghosts among the trees,—
Not people killed in battle,—they're in France,—
But horrible shapes in shrouds--old men who died
Slow, natural deaths,—old men with ugly souls,
Who wore their bodies out with nasty sins.

* * *

You're quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home;
You'd never think there was a bloody war on! ...
O yes, you would ... why, you can hear the guns.
Hark! Thud, thud, thud,—quite soft ... they never cease—
Those whispering guns—O Christ, I want to go out
And screech at them to stop—I'm going crazy;
I'm going stark, staring mad because of the guns.

Siegfried Sassoon

1919

The Harry Ransom Center / The Siegfried Sassoon Literary Estate