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The Waste Land
The Waste Land, first published in 1922, is often regarded as T.S. Eliot's masterpiece, as well as one of the most important poems of the 20th century and a central work of modernist poetry.
The work, divided in 5 sections, juxtaposes the legend of the Holy Grail and the Fisher King, with a snapshot of early twentieth-century British society. In contemporary times, it is often read published within The Waste Land and Other Poems and has come to be Eliot's most popular poem.
T.S. Elliot was a poet, essayist, publisher, playwright, literary critic and editor. Born in 1888 in St. Louis (MO, USA), he is considered one of the 20th century's major poets, and a central figure in English-language Modernist poetry."In ten years' time," wrote Edmund Wilson in Axel's Castle (1931), "Elliot has left upon English poetry a mark more unmistakable than that of any other poet writing in English." In 1948, Eliot was awarded the Nobel Price "for his work as a trail-blazing pioneer of modern poetry."
The work, divided in 5 sections, juxtaposes the legend of the Holy Grail and the Fisher King, with a snapshot of early twentieth-century British society. In contemporary times, it is often read published within The Waste Land and Other Poems and has come to be Eliot's most popular poem.
T.S. Elliot was a poet, essayist, publisher, playwright, literary critic and editor. Born in 1888 in St. Louis (MO, USA), he is considered one of the 20th century's major poets, and a central figure in English-language Modernist poetry."In ten years' time," wrote Edmund Wilson in Axel's Castle (1931), "Elliot has left upon English poetry a mark more unmistakable than that of any other poet writing in English." In 1948, Eliot was awarded the Nobel Price "for his work as a trail-blazing pioneer of modern poetry."
288 pages, Paperback
First published December 1, 1922
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About the author
T.S. Eliot
976听books5,473听followersThomas Stearns Eliot was a poet, dramatist and literary critic. He received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1948 "for his outstanding, pioneer contribution to present-day poetry." He wrote the poems The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, The Waste Land, The Hollow Men, Ash Wednesday, and Four Quartets; the plays Murder in the Cathedral and The Cocktail Party; and the essay Tradition and the Individual Talent. Eliot was born an American, moved to the United Kingdom in 1914 (at the age of 25), and became a British subject in 1927 at the age of 39.
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April 25, 2009
I'm trying to write a term paper on this poem (key word is "trying") and then I realized, hey, I should waste some time by writing a review of the poem on 欧宝娱乐! So here we are.
Here's my thing about T.S. Eliot: the man is ungodly brilliant and I love almost everything he's written. Does this mean I understand a single goddamn word of it? Of course not. But (and this is the great part) that doesn't matter. Eliot has been quoted as saying he's perfectly aware that no one has any idea what his poems are about, and he's perfectly cool with that. Understanding Eliot's poems is not the point; the point is to recognize that he writes with incredible skill and to just lose yourself in the words. My Lit book, How to Read a Poem, said it best:
"Eliot is often see as an intellectually difficult, fearfully elitist writer, and so in some ways he was. But he was also the kind of poet who put little store by erudite allusions, and professed himself quite content to have his poetry read by those who had little idea what it meant. It was form - the material stuff of language itself, its archaic resonances and tentacular roots - which mattered most to him. In fact, he once claimed to have enjoyed reading Dante in the original even before he could understand Italian...In some ways a semi-literate would have been Eliot's ideal reader. He was more of a primitivist than a sophisticate. He was interested in what a poem did, not what it said - in the resonances of the signifier, the lures of its music, the hauntings of its grains and textures, the subterranean workings of what one can only call the poem's unconscious."
Translation: in Eliot's eyes, we are all uncultured idiots, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
So, for those of you struggling to get through the wordy, allusion-tastic, multiple-language maze that is The Waste Land, I can only tell you this: Relax and just enjoy the ride. You have nothing to fear. T.S. Eliot loves you.
Read for: Perspectives on Literature
Here's my thing about T.S. Eliot: the man is ungodly brilliant and I love almost everything he's written. Does this mean I understand a single goddamn word of it? Of course not. But (and this is the great part) that doesn't matter. Eliot has been quoted as saying he's perfectly aware that no one has any idea what his poems are about, and he's perfectly cool with that. Understanding Eliot's poems is not the point; the point is to recognize that he writes with incredible skill and to just lose yourself in the words. My Lit book, How to Read a Poem, said it best:
"Eliot is often see as an intellectually difficult, fearfully elitist writer, and so in some ways he was. But he was also the kind of poet who put little store by erudite allusions, and professed himself quite content to have his poetry read by those who had little idea what it meant. It was form - the material stuff of language itself, its archaic resonances and tentacular roots - which mattered most to him. In fact, he once claimed to have enjoyed reading Dante in the original even before he could understand Italian...In some ways a semi-literate would have been Eliot's ideal reader. He was more of a primitivist than a sophisticate. He was interested in what a poem did, not what it said - in the resonances of the signifier, the lures of its music, the hauntings of its grains and textures, the subterranean workings of what one can only call the poem's unconscious."
Translation: in Eliot's eyes, we are all uncultured idiots, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
So, for those of you struggling to get through the wordy, allusion-tastic, multiple-language maze that is The Waste Land, I can only tell you this: Relax and just enjoy the ride. You have nothing to fear. T.S. Eliot loves you.
Read for: Perspectives on Literature
November 18, 2021
The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot
The Waste Land is a long poem by T. S. Eliot, widely regarded as one of the most important poems of the 20th century and a central work of modernist poetry.
Published in 1922, the 434-line poem first appeared in the United Kingdom in the October issue of Eliot's The Criterion and in the United States in the November issue of The Dial. It was published in book form in December 1922.
Among its famous phrases are "April is the cruellest month", "I will show you fear in a handful of dust", and the mantra in the Sanskrit language "Shantih shantih shantih".
The poem's structure is divided into five sections.
The first section, "The Burial of the Dead," introduces the diverse themes of disillusionment and despair.
The second, "A Game of Chess," employs vignettes of several characters鈥攁lternating narrations鈥攖hat address those themes experientially. "The Fire Sermon,"
The third section, offers a philosophical meditation in relation to the imagery of death and views of self-denial in juxtaposition influenced by Augustine of Hippo and eastern religions.
After a fourth section, "Death by Water," which includes a brief lyrical petition.
The culminating fifth section, "What the Thunder Said," concludes with an image of judgment.
For once I myself saw with my own eyes the Sibyl of Cumae hanging in a cage, and when the boys said, "Sibyl, what do you want?" she replied "I want to die."
毓賳賵丕賳賴丕蹖 趩丕倬 卮丿賴 丿乇 丕蹖乇丕賳: 芦爻乇夭賲蹖賳 賵蹖乇丕賳 (丨爻蹖賳 乇丕夭賶貙 丨賲蹖丿 毓賳丕蹖鬲 賵 趩賳诏蹖夭 賲卮蹖乇賶)禄貨 芦爻乇夭賲蹖賳 賴乇夭 (亘賴賲賳 卮毓賱賴 賵乇貙 賲賴丿賶 賵賴丕亘賶)禄貨 芦丿卮鬲 爻鬲乇賵賳 賵 丕卮毓丕乇 丿蹖诏乇 (倬乇賵蹖夭 賱卮讴乇蹖)禄貨 芦丿卮鬲 爻鬲乇賵賳 (卮賴乇蹖丕乇 卮賴蹖丿蹖)禄貨 芦丕乇囟 賲賵丕鬲 (亘蹖跇賳 丕賱賴蹖)禄貨 芦禺乇丕亘 丌亘丕丿貨 賲毓噩夭賴 賯乇賳 亘蹖爻鬲賲 (賲丨賲丿 丨丕賲丿 賳賵乇蹖)禄貨 芦爻乇夭賲亘賳 亘蹖 丨丕氐賱 (丨爻賳 卮賴亘丕夭貙 噩賵丕丿 毓賱丕賮趩蹖)禄貨 卮丕毓乇: 鬲蹖.丕爻 丕賱蹖賵鬲 鬲蹖. 丕賽爻. 丕賽賱蹖賵鬲 亘丕 賳丕賲 讴丕賲賱 芦鬲賵賲丕爻 丕爻鬲乇賳夭 丕賱蹖賵鬲禄貨 鬲丕乇蹖禺 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 禺賵丕賳卮 賲丕賴 賲丕乇爻 爻丕賱 丿賵賴夭丕乇 賵 丿賵 賲蹖賱丕丿蹖
爻乇夭賲蹖賳 亘蹖 丨丕氐賱: 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 趩丕倬 丕蹖賳 賲賳馗賵賲賴 亘丕 毓賳賵丕賳 芦爻乇夭賲蹖賳 賵蹖乇丕賳禄 亘丕 鬲乇噩賲賴 噩賳丕亘丕賳 丌賯丕蹖丕賳 芦丨爻蹖賳 乇丕夭賶禄貙 芦丨賲蹖丿 毓賳丕蹖鬲禄 賵 芦趩賳诏蹖夭 賲卮蹖乇賶禄貙 丿乇 丕爻賮賳丿 賲丕賴 爻丕賱 1334賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貙 丿乇 噩購賳诏 賴賳乇 賵 丕丿亘 丕賲乇賵夭貙 丿賮鬲乇 丕賵賱 趩丕倬 卮丿貨
丿乇 夭賲爻鬲丕賳 爻丕賱1343賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貙 噩賳丕亘 芦亘賴賲賳 卮毓賱賴 賵乇禄 丕賯丿丕賲 亘賴 鬲乇噩賲賴 丕蹖賳 丕孬乇 讴乇丿賳丿貙 讴賴 亘丕 賴賲蹖賳 毓賳賵丕賳 芦爻乇夭賲蹖賳 賴乇夭禄貙 丿乇 賲噩賱賴 丌乇卮 賲賳鬲卮乇 卮丿
丕賳鬲卮丕乇丕鬲 賳蹖賱 丿乇 鬲賴乇丕賳 賳蹖夭貙 丿乇 爻丕賱1350賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貙 丕蹖賳 卮毓乇賴丕 乇丕 亘丕 毓賳賵丕賳 芦丿卮鬲 爻鬲乇賵賳 賵 丕卮毓丕乇 丿蹖诏乇禄 亘賴 趩丕倬 乇爻丕賳丿賳丿貙 讴賴 鬲乇噩賲賴 蹖 丌賳 乇丕 噩賳丕亘 芦倬乇賵蹖夭 賱卮讴乇賶禄 丕賳噩丕賲 丿丕丿賴 亘賵丿賳丿
丿乇 爻丕賱1357賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖 賲鬲乇噩賲 丿蹖诏乇賶 賳蹖夭 亘賴 爻乇丕睾 卮毓乇賴丕賶 芦丕賱蹖賵鬲禄 乇賮鬲賳丿貨 丕蹖賳 亘丕乇 噩賳丕亘 芦丨爻賳 卮賴亘丕夭禄貙 讴鬲丕亘 芦丕賱蹖賵鬲禄 乇丕 鬲乇噩賲賴 賵 亘賴 亘賳诏丕賴 鬲乇噩賲賴 賵 賳卮乇 讴鬲丕亘 爻倬乇丿賳丿貨
賳卮乇 賮丕乇蹖丕亘 丿乇 爻丕賱1362賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貙 鬲乇噩賲賴 蹖 噩賳丕亘 芦亘賴賲賳 卮毓賱賴 賵乇禄 乇丕貙 亘丕 毓賳賵丕賳 芦爻乇夭賲蹖賳 賴乇夭禄貙 亘丕乇 丿蹖诏乇 亘賴 賳丕賲 禺賵丿 趩丕倬 賵 賲賳鬲卮乇 讴乇丿
丌禺乇蹖賳 鬲乇噩賲賴 倬蹖卮 丕夭 讴鬲丕亘 丨丕囟乇 賳蹖夭貙 丿乇 賲丐爻爻賴 蹖 賳卮乇 賴賲丕貙 亘丕 毓賳賵丕賳 芦丿卮鬲 爻鬲乇賵賳禄 丕賳噩丕賲 卮丿
丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 丿乇 爻丕賱1377賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖 丿乇 亘丕夭丕乇 讴鬲丕亘 丕蹖乇丕賳 鬲賵夭蹖毓 卮丿貨
賴賲趩賳蹖賳 賳卮乇 丕賲鬲丿丕丿 丿乇 鬲賴乇丕賳 賴賲貙 亘賴 爻乇丕睾 卮毓乇賴丕賶 丕蹖賳 卮丕毓乇 亘乇蹖鬲丕賳蹖丕 乇賮鬲賴貙 賵 讴鬲丕亘 芦爻乇夭賲蹖賳 賴乇夭禄 乇丕 亘丕 鬲乇噩賲賴 蹖 噩賳丕亘 芦賲賴丿賶 賵賴丕亘賶禄 趩丕倬 賵 賲賳鬲卮乇 讴乇丿賴 丕爻鬲
鬲乇噩賲賴 賴丕賶 蹖丕丿 卮丿賴貙 丿乇 丨丕賱 丨丕囟乇 丕夭 讴鬲丕亘賴丕賶 讴賲蹖丕亘 亘丕夭丕乇 讴鬲丕亘 賴爻鬲賳丿貨 丕賱亘鬲賴 亘賴 丕蹖賳 賮賴乇爻鬲貙 毓賱丕賵賴 亘乇 鬲乇噩賲賴 蹖 噩賳丕亘 芦噩賵丕丿 毓賱丕賮趩蹖禄貙 鬲乇噩賲賴 蹖 噩賳丕亘 芦賴賵賲賳 毓夭蹖夭蹖禄 乇丕 賴賲貙 讴賴 丿乇 爻丕蹖鬲 丕蹖賳鬲乇賳鬲蹖 芦賲丕賳蹖 賴丕禄 賲賳鬲卮乇 卮丿賴貙 亘丕蹖丿 丕賮夭賵丿
賳賯賱 鬲讴賴 丕蹖 丕夭 卮毓乇: 丿乇禺鬲 禺卮讴 爻丕蹖賴 賳丿丕乇丿貨 噩蹖乇噩蹖乇讴貙 乇丕丨鬲鬲 賳賲蹖颅诏匕丕乇丿貨 丿乇 丕蹖賳 爻賳诏颅賴丕蹖 禺卮讴貙 氐丿丕蹖 丌亘蹖 賳蹖爻鬲貨
鬲丕乇蹖禺 亘賴賳诏丕賲 乇爻丕賳蹖 24/10/1399賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貨 26/08/1400賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貨 丕. 卮乇亘蹖丕賳蹖
The Waste Land is a long poem by T. S. Eliot, widely regarded as one of the most important poems of the 20th century and a central work of modernist poetry.
Published in 1922, the 434-line poem first appeared in the United Kingdom in the October issue of Eliot's The Criterion and in the United States in the November issue of The Dial. It was published in book form in December 1922.
Among its famous phrases are "April is the cruellest month", "I will show you fear in a handful of dust", and the mantra in the Sanskrit language "Shantih shantih shantih".
The poem's structure is divided into five sections.
The first section, "The Burial of the Dead," introduces the diverse themes of disillusionment and despair.
The second, "A Game of Chess," employs vignettes of several characters鈥攁lternating narrations鈥攖hat address those themes experientially. "The Fire Sermon,"
The third section, offers a philosophical meditation in relation to the imagery of death and views of self-denial in juxtaposition influenced by Augustine of Hippo and eastern religions.
After a fourth section, "Death by Water," which includes a brief lyrical petition.
The culminating fifth section, "What the Thunder Said," concludes with an image of judgment.
For once I myself saw with my own eyes the Sibyl of Cumae hanging in a cage, and when the boys said, "Sibyl, what do you want?" she replied "I want to die."
毓賳賵丕賳賴丕蹖 趩丕倬 卮丿賴 丿乇 丕蹖乇丕賳: 芦爻乇夭賲蹖賳 賵蹖乇丕賳 (丨爻蹖賳 乇丕夭賶貙 丨賲蹖丿 毓賳丕蹖鬲 賵 趩賳诏蹖夭 賲卮蹖乇賶)禄貨 芦爻乇夭賲蹖賳 賴乇夭 (亘賴賲賳 卮毓賱賴 賵乇貙 賲賴丿賶 賵賴丕亘賶)禄貨 芦丿卮鬲 爻鬲乇賵賳 賵 丕卮毓丕乇 丿蹖诏乇 (倬乇賵蹖夭 賱卮讴乇蹖)禄貨 芦丿卮鬲 爻鬲乇賵賳 (卮賴乇蹖丕乇 卮賴蹖丿蹖)禄貨 芦丕乇囟 賲賵丕鬲 (亘蹖跇賳 丕賱賴蹖)禄貨 芦禺乇丕亘 丌亘丕丿貨 賲毓噩夭賴 賯乇賳 亘蹖爻鬲賲 (賲丨賲丿 丨丕賲丿 賳賵乇蹖)禄貨 芦爻乇夭賲亘賳 亘蹖 丨丕氐賱 (丨爻賳 卮賴亘丕夭貙 噩賵丕丿 毓賱丕賮趩蹖)禄貨 卮丕毓乇: 鬲蹖.丕爻 丕賱蹖賵鬲 鬲蹖. 丕賽爻. 丕賽賱蹖賵鬲 亘丕 賳丕賲 讴丕賲賱 芦鬲賵賲丕爻 丕爻鬲乇賳夭 丕賱蹖賵鬲禄貨 鬲丕乇蹖禺 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 禺賵丕賳卮 賲丕賴 賲丕乇爻 爻丕賱 丿賵賴夭丕乇 賵 丿賵 賲蹖賱丕丿蹖
爻乇夭賲蹖賳 亘蹖 丨丕氐賱: 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 趩丕倬 丕蹖賳 賲賳馗賵賲賴 亘丕 毓賳賵丕賳 芦爻乇夭賲蹖賳 賵蹖乇丕賳禄 亘丕 鬲乇噩賲賴 噩賳丕亘丕賳 丌賯丕蹖丕賳 芦丨爻蹖賳 乇丕夭賶禄貙 芦丨賲蹖丿 毓賳丕蹖鬲禄 賵 芦趩賳诏蹖夭 賲卮蹖乇賶禄貙 丿乇 丕爻賮賳丿 賲丕賴 爻丕賱 1334賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貙 丿乇 噩購賳诏 賴賳乇 賵 丕丿亘 丕賲乇賵夭貙 丿賮鬲乇 丕賵賱 趩丕倬 卮丿貨
丿乇 夭賲爻鬲丕賳 爻丕賱1343賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貙 噩賳丕亘 芦亘賴賲賳 卮毓賱賴 賵乇禄 丕賯丿丕賲 亘賴 鬲乇噩賲賴 丕蹖賳 丕孬乇 讴乇丿賳丿貙 讴賴 亘丕 賴賲蹖賳 毓賳賵丕賳 芦爻乇夭賲蹖賳 賴乇夭禄貙 丿乇 賲噩賱賴 丌乇卮 賲賳鬲卮乇 卮丿
丕賳鬲卮丕乇丕鬲 賳蹖賱 丿乇 鬲賴乇丕賳 賳蹖夭貙 丿乇 爻丕賱1350賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貙 丕蹖賳 卮毓乇賴丕 乇丕 亘丕 毓賳賵丕賳 芦丿卮鬲 爻鬲乇賵賳 賵 丕卮毓丕乇 丿蹖诏乇禄 亘賴 趩丕倬 乇爻丕賳丿賳丿貙 讴賴 鬲乇噩賲賴 蹖 丌賳 乇丕 噩賳丕亘 芦倬乇賵蹖夭 賱卮讴乇賶禄 丕賳噩丕賲 丿丕丿賴 亘賵丿賳丿
丿乇 爻丕賱1357賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖 賲鬲乇噩賲 丿蹖诏乇賶 賳蹖夭 亘賴 爻乇丕睾 卮毓乇賴丕賶 芦丕賱蹖賵鬲禄 乇賮鬲賳丿貨 丕蹖賳 亘丕乇 噩賳丕亘 芦丨爻賳 卮賴亘丕夭禄貙 讴鬲丕亘 芦丕賱蹖賵鬲禄 乇丕 鬲乇噩賲賴 賵 亘賴 亘賳诏丕賴 鬲乇噩賲賴 賵 賳卮乇 讴鬲丕亘 爻倬乇丿賳丿貨
賳卮乇 賮丕乇蹖丕亘 丿乇 爻丕賱1362賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貙 鬲乇噩賲賴 蹖 噩賳丕亘 芦亘賴賲賳 卮毓賱賴 賵乇禄 乇丕貙 亘丕 毓賳賵丕賳 芦爻乇夭賲蹖賳 賴乇夭禄貙 亘丕乇 丿蹖诏乇 亘賴 賳丕賲 禺賵丿 趩丕倬 賵 賲賳鬲卮乇 讴乇丿
丌禺乇蹖賳 鬲乇噩賲賴 倬蹖卮 丕夭 讴鬲丕亘 丨丕囟乇 賳蹖夭貙 丿乇 賲丐爻爻賴 蹖 賳卮乇 賴賲丕貙 亘丕 毓賳賵丕賳 芦丿卮鬲 爻鬲乇賵賳禄 丕賳噩丕賲 卮丿
丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 丿乇 爻丕賱1377賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖 丿乇 亘丕夭丕乇 讴鬲丕亘 丕蹖乇丕賳 鬲賵夭蹖毓 卮丿貨
賴賲趩賳蹖賳 賳卮乇 丕賲鬲丿丕丿 丿乇 鬲賴乇丕賳 賴賲貙 亘賴 爻乇丕睾 卮毓乇賴丕賶 丕蹖賳 卮丕毓乇 亘乇蹖鬲丕賳蹖丕 乇賮鬲賴貙 賵 讴鬲丕亘 芦爻乇夭賲蹖賳 賴乇夭禄 乇丕 亘丕 鬲乇噩賲賴 蹖 噩賳丕亘 芦賲賴丿賶 賵賴丕亘賶禄 趩丕倬 賵 賲賳鬲卮乇 讴乇丿賴 丕爻鬲
鬲乇噩賲賴 賴丕賶 蹖丕丿 卮丿賴貙 丿乇 丨丕賱 丨丕囟乇 丕夭 讴鬲丕亘賴丕賶 讴賲蹖丕亘 亘丕夭丕乇 讴鬲丕亘 賴爻鬲賳丿貨 丕賱亘鬲賴 亘賴 丕蹖賳 賮賴乇爻鬲貙 毓賱丕賵賴 亘乇 鬲乇噩賲賴 蹖 噩賳丕亘 芦噩賵丕丿 毓賱丕賮趩蹖禄貙 鬲乇噩賲賴 蹖 噩賳丕亘 芦賴賵賲賳 毓夭蹖夭蹖禄 乇丕 賴賲貙 讴賴 丿乇 爻丕蹖鬲 丕蹖賳鬲乇賳鬲蹖 芦賲丕賳蹖 賴丕禄 賲賳鬲卮乇 卮丿賴貙 亘丕蹖丿 丕賮夭賵丿
賳賯賱 鬲讴賴 丕蹖 丕夭 卮毓乇: 丿乇禺鬲 禺卮讴 爻丕蹖賴 賳丿丕乇丿貨 噩蹖乇噩蹖乇讴貙 乇丕丨鬲鬲 賳賲蹖颅诏匕丕乇丿貨 丿乇 丕蹖賳 爻賳诏颅賴丕蹖 禺卮讴貙 氐丿丕蹖 丌亘蹖 賳蹖爻鬲貨
鬲丕乇蹖禺 亘賴賳诏丕賲 乇爻丕賳蹖 24/10/1399賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貨 26/08/1400賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貨 丕. 卮乇亘蹖丕賳蹖
August 15, 2023
You guys. YOU GUYS. So this is where all those lines come from? 鈥淎pril is the cruelest month鈥�, 鈥淚 will show you fear in a handful of dust鈥� and 鈥淐onsider Phlebas鈥�?
Well, damn.
I was a science major in college, and took humanities courses for fun, but neither one of my two required English classes covered this poem. And so I missed out on deep analysis or even just not too deep explanation. Because I just read it four times in a row 鈥� and no, I don鈥檛 get it. I tried to read some annotations, and I just don鈥檛 get it. I even found three different Russian translations of this poem hoping that a different language would help elucidate meaning. And still no luck 鈥� even after resultant seven(!!!) times reading it. Individual bits make sense (sometimes) but the big picture, the gestalt, escapes me. Unless it鈥檚 not supposed to come together, in which case I鈥檓 cool.
I may be a tad suspicious of poetry that requires extensive annotations to get it. Apparently the poem alone is under 20 pages but there is a 320 page book with annotations for it??? I can just picture Eliot rubbing his hands together and giggling in the supervillain-like manner over the image of generations of English scholars mining the poem for meaning.
But hey, the opening four lines are just amazing; there鈥檚 absolutely nothing about them that isn鈥檛 perfect:
I mean, I don鈥檛 even care that reading it seven times in a row, in two different languages, left me confused. Those four lines with that rhythm and cadence and whatever that literary trick of ending those lines like that 鈥� those alone are worth it.
Oh, and this one caught my attention:
Yeah. Beautiful. And frustratingly difficult.
But now I can feel all smug knowing where the quotable lines come from, even if I still have no clue about what it actually *is*.
Star ratings? These are meaningless here. So 4 stars for 4 perfect opening lines.
鈥斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌�
Also posted on .
Well, damn.
I was a science major in college, and took humanities courses for fun, but neither one of my two required English classes covered this poem. And so I missed out on deep analysis or even just not too deep explanation. Because I just read it four times in a row 鈥� and no, I don鈥檛 get it. I tried to read some annotations, and I just don鈥檛 get it. I even found three different Russian translations of this poem hoping that a different language would help elucidate meaning. And still no luck 鈥� even after resultant seven(!!!) times reading it. Individual bits make sense (sometimes) but the big picture, the gestalt, escapes me. Unless it鈥檚 not supposed to come together, in which case I鈥檓 cool.
Ahhh, that鈥檚 a good line.
I may be a tad suspicious of poetry that requires extensive annotations to get it. Apparently the poem alone is under 20 pages but there is a 320 page book with annotations for it??? I can just picture Eliot rubbing his hands together and giggling in the supervillain-like manner over the image of generations of English scholars mining the poem for meaning.
But hey, the opening four lines are just amazing; there鈥檚 absolutely nothing about them that isn鈥檛 perfect:
鈥淎pril is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.鈥�
I mean, I don鈥檛 even care that reading it seven times in a row, in two different languages, left me confused. Those four lines with that rhythm and cadence and whatever that literary trick of ending those lines like that 鈥� those alone are worth it.
Oh, and this one caught my attention:
鈥淎nd upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.鈥�
Yeah. Beautiful. And frustratingly difficult.
But now I can feel all smug knowing where the quotable lines come from, even if I still have no clue about what it actually *is*.
Star ratings? These are meaningless here. So 4 stars for 4 perfect opening lines.
鈥斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌斺赌�
Also posted on .
February 1, 2021
...
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賮丕賱乇賲賵夭 賵胤乇賷賯丞 丕賱爻乇丿(丕賱毓馗賷賲丞) 鬲丐孬乇 賰孬賷乇丕 毓賱賶 賲賳 賱丕 禺賱賮賷丞 賱賴 毓賳賴丕
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賵賷丕賱賴 賲賳 鬲噩丿丿 賱賱爻丨乇
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賵丕賱丕賳丨胤丕胤 丕賱兀禺賱丕賯賷 丕賱匕賷 鬲乇賰鬲賴 丕賱丨乇亘 賵乇丕亍賴丕
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賰賷賮 賷乇丕賴 丕賱卮丕毓乇 亘賴匕賴 丕賱胤乇賷賯丞 丕賱賲賮夭毓丞
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賲賳 丕賱賰賱賲丞 丕賱兀賵賱賶
賱賲 賷鬲乇賰 賱賴 賲噩丕賱丕 賱兀賷 兀賲賱
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賵賲賳 孬賲 賷兀鬲賷 丕賱卮鬲丕亍 賱賷丿賮卅賳丕 亘睾胤丕卅賴 丕賱孬賱噩賷 賲賳 丕賱賳爻賷丕賳
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賰丕賳 賱廿賱賷賵鬲 氐丿賷賯 丨賲賷賲 賮賯丿賴 亘爻亘亘 賵賷賱丕鬲 丕賱丨乇亘鈥�
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賵廿匕 毓乇賮賳丕 匕賱賰 賮賯丿 賳乇賶 賮賷 亘毓囟 丕賱乇賲賵夭
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鬲鬲毓丿丿 丕賱兀賱爻賳丞 賮賷 賴匕賴 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞
賵亘丿賵賳 爻丕亘賯 廿賳匕丕乇 賳噩丿 丕賱賵丕丨丿 亘毓丿 丕賱丌禺乇 賷賯氐 毓賱賷賳丕 乇賵丕賷鬲賴
賵丕賱鬲賷 鬲亘丿賵 賵賰兀賳賴丕 賲賯鬲胤毓 賲賳 丨丿賷孬
賱丕 亘丿丕賷丞 賱賴 賵賱丕 賳賴丕賷丞
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丕賱爻賷丿丞 丕賱孬乇賷丞
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丕賱賱丕賷丿賷 賮乇賷爻賰丕
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賮賷賱亘丕爻 丕賱賮賷賳賷賯賷
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匕丕賮賷卮乇 賰賷賳噩
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賵兀禺賷乇丕 丕賱乇丕賵賷
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兀賳丕 兀丨亘 匕丕 賵丕賷爻鬲 賱丕賳丿
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兀丨亘 賰賱 賲丕 賷鬲毓賱賯 亘賴丕
兀丨亘賴丕 亘亘爻丕胤丞... 賰孬賷乇丕
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毓賳丿賲丕 亘丿兀鬲 賮賷 丿亘賱賵賲丞 丕賱鬲乇噩賲丞 賮賷 丕賱丿乇丕爻丕鬲 丕賱毓賱賷丕
賵噩丿鬲 兀爻鬲丕匕賷 賮賷 丕賱卮毓乇 賴賵 兀丨丿 兀爻丕鬲匕鬲賷 賮賷 丕賱鬲乇噩賲丞 兀賷囟丕
賵毓賳丿賲丕 毓賱賲鬲 兀賳賴 賷卮乇丨 丕賱賯氐賷丿丞 賱廿丨丿賶 丕賱賮乇賯 兀爻乇毓鬲 賵胤賱亘鬲 賲賳賴 丕賱丨囟賵乇 賲毓賴賲
賵賷丕賱賴 賲賳 鬲噩丿丿 賱賱爻丨乇
賲噩丿丿丕 兀毓賷卮 兀噩賲賱 丕賱噩賱爻丕鬲 丕賱卮毓乇賷丞 鈥�
賵兀鬲賲鬲毓 亘匕賰丕亍 廿賱賷賵鬲 賵賯丿乇鬲賴 丕賱賲匕賴賱丞 毓賱賶 鬲賰賵賷賳 丕賱賯氐賷丿
丕賱亘毓囟 賷鬲噩乇兀 毓賱賶 賵氐賮 丕賱賯氐賷丿丞 亘丕賱賲賮賰賰丞
賵賴匕丕 賮賷 乇兀賷賷 賲丨囟 賴乇丕亍
賮丕賱賵丨丿丞 丕賱毓囟賵賷丞 賲鬲丨賯賯丞 賵亘賯賵丞 賮賷 丕賱賯氐賷丿丞
賷馗賴乇 匕賱賰 噩賱賷丕 毓賳丿賲丕 鬲賰鬲賲賱 賵鬲賳鬲賴賷
廿匕丕 賱賲丕 丕禺鬲丕乇 廿賱賷賵鬲 賴匕丕 丕賱鬲卮馗賷 賮賷 鬲乇賰賷亘 賯氐賷丿鬲賴
賵亘賳丕丐賴丕 亘賴匕丕 丕賱卮賰賱 賵氐賷丕睾鬲賴丕 亘鬲賱賰 丕賱賱睾丞 丕賱氐毓亘丞
廿賳 廿賱賷賵鬲 賴賳丕 賷爻鬲禺丿賲 丕賱乇賲夭賷丞 亘賰孬丕賮丞 賵亘胤乇賷賯丞 賮乇賷丿丞
賮賴匕丕 丕賱鬲卮馗賷 賷乇賲夭 賱鬲卮馗賷 兀賮賰丕乇 丕賱廿賳爻丕賳 丕賱賲毓丕氐乇(賵賯鬲賴丕)鈥�
賵鬲賮賰賰 賴賵賷鬲賴 廿賱賶 丨胤丕賲 賵兀卮賱丕亍 賲亘毓孬乇丞
賵丕賳鬲卮丕乇 丕賱禺賵丕亍 丕賱賮賰乇賷 賵丕賱賮乇丕睾 丕賱乇賵丨賷
賵丕賱丕賳丨胤丕胤 丕賱兀禺賱丕賯賷 丕賱匕賷 鬲乇賰鬲賴 丕賱丨乇亘 賵乇丕亍賴丕
賰鬲亘鬲 丕賱賯氐賷丿丞 賮賷 兀噩賵丕亍 丕賱丨乇亘 丕賱毓丕賱賲賷丞 丕賱兀賵賱賶 鈥�
賵亘丕賱賳馗乇 廿賱賶 丕賱賯氐賷丿丞 賮賷 爻賷丕賯賴丕 丕賱鬲丕乇賷禺賷 鈥�
賳毓乇賮 兀爻亘丕亘 賵丿賵丕賮毓 賰鬲丕亘丞 丕賱賯氐賷丿丞 毓賱賶 賴匕丕 丕賱賳丨賵
噩丕毓賱丕 賲賳賴丕 賲丿丿丕 賱丕 賷賮賳賶 賱兀賮賰丕乇 丕賱毓丿賲賷丞 賵丕賱毓亘孬賷丞 鈥�
April is the cruellest month breeding
lilacs out of the dead land 鈥�
賲賮鬲鬲丨 丕賱賯氐賷丿丞 丕賱匕賷 鬲賵賯賮鬲 毓賳丿賴 兀賳丕 鈥撡堌Ｘ池ж百� 胤賵賷賱丕
兀毓賳賷 賰賷賮 賷賲賰賳 兀賳 賷賰賵賳 卮賴乇 丕賱乇亘賷毓 賴賵 丕賱兀賯爻賶鈥�
賰賷賮 賷乇丕賴 丕賱卮丕毓乇 亘賴匕賴 丕賱胤乇賷賯丞 丕賱賲賮夭毓丞
廿匕丕 丕毓鬲賲丿 丕賱卮丕毓乇 毓賱賶 賲賮丕噩卅丞 丕賱賯丕乇卅 賲賳 丕賱亘丿丕賷丞
賲賳 丕賱賰賱賲丞 丕賱兀賵賱賶
賱賲 賷鬲乇賰 賱賴 賲噩丕賱丕 賱兀賷 兀賲賱
賮丕賱毓丿賲 賴賵 丕賱賲氐賷乇 丕賱賲丨鬲賵賲鈥�
賵賲賳 孬賲 賷兀鬲賷 丕賱卮鬲丕亍 賱賷丿賮卅賳丕 亘睾胤丕卅賴 丕賱孬賱噩賷 賲賳 丕賱賳爻賷丕賳
:
:
Winter Kept us warm, covering鈥� 鈥�
Earth in forgetful snow
賰丕賳 賱廿賱賷賵鬲 氐丿賷賯 丨賲賷賲 賮賯丿賴 亘爻亘亘 賵賷賱丕鬲 丕賱丨乇亘鈥�
賵賮賷 丌禺乇 賲乇丞 乇兀賴 賰丕賳 賷賱賵丨 賱賴 亘夭賴乇 丕賱賱賷賱賰 鈥�
賵廿匕 毓乇賮賳丕 匕賱賰 賮賯丿 賳乇賶 賮賷 亘毓囟 丕賱乇賲賵夭
氐賵乇丞 匕賱賰 丕賱氐丿賷賯 丕賱賲睾丿賵乇 賰丕賱賲賱賾丕丨 丕賱賮賷賳賷賯賷 丕賱睾乇賷賯
鬲鬲毓丿丿 丕賱兀賱爻賳丞 賮賷 賴匕賴 丕賱乇賵丕賷丞
賵亘丿賵賳 爻丕亘賯 廿賳匕丕乇 賳噩丿 丕賱賵丕丨丿 亘毓丿 丕賱丌禺乇 賷賯氐 毓賱賷賳丕 乇賵丕賷鬲賴
賵丕賱鬲賷 鬲亘丿賵 賵賰兀賳賴丕 賲賯鬲胤毓 賲賳 丨丿賷孬
賱丕 亘丿丕賷丞 賱賴 賵賱丕 賳賴丕賷丞
賵爻賳噩丿 賱睾丕鬲 兀禺乇賶 毓賱賶 兀賱爻賳丞 兀卮禺丕氐 賰孬賷乇賷賳
賮丕賱廿賳爻丕賳 賮賷 賯氐賷丿丞 廿賱賷賵鬲 賯丿 賷賰賵賳 賲賳 兀賷 賲賰丕賳 賮賷 丕賱兀乇囟
賵賱賰賳賴 亘丕賱鬲兀賰賷丿 賷毓丕賳賷 賲賳 賳賮爻 丕賱禺賱賱 賵賷鬲丨賱賱 鬲丨鬲 賵胤兀丞 匕丕賰 丕賱丿賲丕乇鈥�
賵賴匕賴 丕賱卮禺氐賷丕鬲 賮賷 丕賱賳賴丕賷丞 鬲鬲囟丨 賰丕賱鬲丕賱賷:鈥�
丕賱爻賷丿丞 丕賱孬乇賷丞
丕賱賮鬲丕丞 丕賱鬲賷 鬲毓賲賱 毓賱賶 丕賱丕賱丞 丕賱賰丕鬲亘丞
爻鬲賷鬲爻賵賳 丕賱卮亘丨鈥�
賮賷賱賵賲賷賱丕 丕賱鬲賷 賰鬲亘賴丕 鬲賷乇賷賵爻 丕賱廿睾乇賷賯賷鈥�
丕賱賱丕賷丿賷 賮乇賷爻賰丕
丕賱鬲丕噩乇 賷賵噩賷賳賷丿賷夭
賮賷賱亘丕爻 丕賱賮賷賳賷賯賷
賲丿丕賲 爻賵爻賵爻鬲乇賷爻 賯丕乇卅丞 丕賱胤丕賱毓鈥�
匕丕賮賷卮乇 賰賷賳噩
鬲賷乇賷爻賷丕爻 丕賱賳亘賷 丕賱兀毓賲賶 賲賳 兀賵丿賷爻丞 賴賵賲乇鈥�
賵兀禺賷乇丕 丕賱乇丕賵賷
賮賷 賯氐賷丿鬲賴 賷賯鬲亘爻 廿賱賷賵鬲 賲賳 丿丕賳鬲賷 賵卮賰爻亘賷乇 賵賵丕噩賳乇 賵睾賷乇賴賲 鈥�
賵賷毓鬲賲丿 毓賱賶 兀爻丕胤賷乇 賯丿賷賲丞 賰孬賷乇丞
賵賷囟賮乇 賰賱 賴匕丕 亘胤乇賷賯鬲賴 丕賱禺丕氐丞 鈥�
賱賷賰賵賳 賲賳賴丕 賵丕丨丿丞 賲賳 兀賲鬲毓 賵兀毓噩亘 丕賱賯氐丕卅丿 賮賷 鬲丕乇賷禺 丕賱亘卮乇賷丞
賵丕賱丨丿賷孬 毓賳 丕賱賯氐賷丿丞 賵賮賰 乇賲賵夭賴丕 賷胤賵賱
賵廿賱賶 兀賳 鬲鬲賵丕賮乇 賱丿賷 丕賱賯丿乇丞 賵丕賱賵賯鬲
爻兀鬲乇賰 丕賳胤亘丕毓賷 賴丕 賴賳丕 鈥�
兀賳丕 兀丨亘 匕丕 賵丕賷爻鬲 賱丕賳丿
兀丨亘 賯乇丕亍鬲賴丕 賵丿乇丕爻鬲賴丕 賵爻賲丕毓賴丕 賵丕賱賯乇丕亍丞 毓賳賴丕
兀丨亘 賰賱 賲丕 賷鬲毓賱賯 亘賴丕
兀丨亘賴丕 亘亘爻丕胤丞... 賰孬賷乇丕
September 1, 2009
You know, one of the greatest poems of the 20th century and that kind of thing. I must know a fair amount of it by heart.
Here's a story about "The Waste Land" that some people may find amusing. Many years ago, when I was an undergraduate in Cambridge, a friend of mine asked me for advice on how to impress female Eng Lit majors. Well, I said, you could do worse than use The Waste Land. Just memorise a few lines, and you'll probably be able to bluff successfully.
We did some rehearsals, and eventually agreed on the following script. He would start off by quoting the first few lines:
"April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain."
And then he would say, But that's not my favourite bit! and quote the following:
"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess."
He tried it out a couple of times, and it worked! Female Eng Lit majors, I apologise for assisting with this deception. It wasn't very nice of me.
Here's a story about "The Waste Land" that some people may find amusing. Many years ago, when I was an undergraduate in Cambridge, a friend of mine asked me for advice on how to impress female Eng Lit majors. Well, I said, you could do worse than use The Waste Land. Just memorise a few lines, and you'll probably be able to bluff successfully.
We did some rehearsals, and eventually agreed on the following script. He would start off by quoting the first few lines:
"April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain."
And then he would say, But that's not my favourite bit! and quote the following:
"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess."
He tried it out a couple of times, and it worked! Female Eng Lit majors, I apologise for assisting with this deception. It wasn't very nice of me.
November 12, 2020
I read a lot of poems as an English major back in the day.* Not many have stuck with me over the years, but The Waste Land is one of them: T.S. Eliot's lamentation about the spiritual drought in our day, the waste land of our Western society, lightened by a few fleeting glimpses of hope. It's fragmented, haunting, laden with symbolism and allusions, difficult, and utterly brilliant.
A diverse cast of characters take turns narrating the poem, or having their conversations overheard by the narrator, including:
鉁� a Lithuanian countess, reminiscing about her childhood and life ("I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter")
鉁� a prophetic voice, like Ezekiel, examining the barrenness of civilization ("Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter ...")
鉁� Madame Sosostris, a famous but fake clairvoyant, telling a fortune with tarot cards ("I do not find the Hanged Man. Fear death by water. I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Thank you.")
鉁� a bored woman of leisure, talking to her husband, who answers in his mind ("What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? I never know what you are thinking. Think. / I think we are in rats' alley Where the dead men lost their bones.")
鉁� Two women talking in a bar about sex and abortion ("Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart. He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth.")
... and many more. Those are just the main ones in the first two (of five) sections). Symbols of drought and fertility, spiritual waste and renewal, surface and resurface, showing a different facet each time. I'd forgotten that the Holy Grail (cup) and Holy Lance (spear) doubled as a nifty set of female/male sexual symbols!
This is a poem that deserves to be read, taken apart and studied, and then simply read again and appreciated.
"These fragments I have shored against my ruins..."
*I still have my 2600 page , which has extensive analysis and footnotes. It also has my helpful handwritten margin notes from 30+ years ago, written in the most amazingly lovely, minuscule handwriting imaginable (seriously, the letters are about a half a millimeter high) that I could never in a million years recreate now.
A diverse cast of characters take turns narrating the poem, or having their conversations overheard by the narrator, including:
鉁� a Lithuanian countess, reminiscing about her childhood and life ("I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter")
鉁� a prophetic voice, like Ezekiel, examining the barrenness of civilization ("Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter ...")
鉁� Madame Sosostris, a famous but fake clairvoyant, telling a fortune with tarot cards ("I do not find the Hanged Man. Fear death by water. I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Thank you.")
鉁� a bored woman of leisure, talking to her husband, who answers in his mind ("What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? I never know what you are thinking. Think. / I think we are in rats' alley Where the dead men lost their bones.")
鉁� Two women talking in a bar about sex and abortion ("Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart. He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth.")
... and many more. Those are just the main ones in the first two (of five) sections). Symbols of drought and fertility, spiritual waste and renewal, surface and resurface, showing a different facet each time. I'd forgotten that the Holy Grail (cup) and Holy Lance (spear) doubled as a nifty set of female/male sexual symbols!
This is a poem that deserves to be read, taken apart and studied, and then simply read again and appreciated.
"These fragments I have shored against my ruins..."
*I still have my 2600 page , which has extensive analysis and footnotes. It also has my helpful handwritten margin notes from 30+ years ago, written in the most amazingly lovely, minuscule handwriting imaginable (seriously, the letters are about a half a millimeter high) that I could never in a million years recreate now.
April 5, 2022
THIS IS THE END, BEAUTIFUL FRIEND
Non 猫 una semplice poesia: 猫 ben pi霉 lunga, 猫 un poemetto.
Ma 猫 anche ben pi霉 breve della sua fama, di tutte le parole spese intorno a questo componimento, che 猫 entrato nella storia, non solo letteraria, sia per lo splendido titolo, che per quel primo magnifico verso, Aprile 猫 il pi霉 crudele dei mesi.
Ma siccome non potrei proprio dire che io e la poesia abbiamo un rapporto stretto e felice, dato che ci frequentiamo molto poco, ai celebri versi di Eliot sono arrivato per via traversa.
Via cinema, a causa di un film.
Uno dei capolavori di Francis Ford Coppola, Apocalypse Now dove Brando/Kurtz recita Eliot.
Anche se non recita questi versi, bens矛 quelli di un鈥檃ltra poesia, sempre di T.S. Eliot, intitolata The Hollow Men.
Se non che, Coppola inquadra nell鈥檃ntro di Kurtz un libro di Eliot insieme ad altri, e The Waste Land 猫 intriso del famoso romanzo di Conrad che viene sempre tirato in ballo a proposito del film di Coppola: la connessione sembra piuttosto diretta, e una cosa tira l鈥檃ltra, ho voluto leggere anche La terra desolata.
Apocalypse Now fu probabilmente il primo film in lingua originale che ho visto: era quella che all鈥檈poca si chiamava una 鈥減rima visione鈥�. Ero appena approdato in California per la prima volta, non potevo certo perderlo.
E ovviamente, l鈥檋o visto senza sottotitoli. Ho capito meno di met脿 di quanto veniva detto. La voce di Jim Morrison era la cosa pi霉 comprensibile, ma su quella ero gi脿 ben preparato, conoscevo la canzone a memoria.
Mi sono consolato con le immagini, potentissime.
Ho rivisto il film pi霉 e pi霉 volte, non solo perch茅 猫 molto bello, e perch茅 mi piace, ma anche perch茅 quella prima volta la mia comprensione era stata alquanto zoppicante.
In ogni caso fu esperienza utilissima: da allora guardo un film solo in originale (e possibilmente con i sottotitoli) 鈥� avremo anche i doppiatori pi霉 bravi del mondo, ma il doppiaggio sottrae a un film molto ma molto di pi霉 di quanto una traduzione sottragga a un libro letto nella sua lingua.
E poi, vogliamo dire di quando DeNiro, Hoffmann, Stallone, Pacino avevano tutti la stessa voce italiana, per giunta con un difetto di pronuncia (credo si definisca zeppola)?!
E poi, vogliamo dire che da quando ragioni economiche (= risparmio) hanno ridotto i tempi di doppiaggio, anche la qualit脿 dei migliori doppiatori del mondo 猫 ben altra?
La voce di Brando 猫 un鈥檃ltra esperienza imperdibile.
Il film di Coppola per una serie di circostanze 猫 ammantato di mistero, a cominciare dal momento della realizzazione, le riprese: un uragano che abbatte tutti i set, un鈥檌sola filippina incendiata e distrutta per esigenze di copione鈥� Vero o falso?
Alla premi猫re del Festival di Cannes, Coppola port貌 due versioni, o meglio due finali: in uno Willard torna a casa, nell鈥檃ltro rimane e prende il posto di Kurtz.
Ma le versioni del film sono di pi霉, non differiscono solo per il finale, da una all鈥檃ltra cambia molto la durata, si pu貌 arrivare a pi霉 di tre ore.
Non 猫 una semplice poesia: 猫 ben pi霉 lunga, 猫 un poemetto.
Ma 猫 anche ben pi霉 breve della sua fama, di tutte le parole spese intorno a questo componimento, che 猫 entrato nella storia, non solo letteraria, sia per lo splendido titolo, che per quel primo magnifico verso, Aprile 猫 il pi霉 crudele dei mesi.
Ma siccome non potrei proprio dire che io e la poesia abbiamo un rapporto stretto e felice, dato che ci frequentiamo molto poco, ai celebri versi di Eliot sono arrivato per via traversa.
Via cinema, a causa di un film.
Uno dei capolavori di Francis Ford Coppola, Apocalypse Now dove Brando/Kurtz recita Eliot.
Anche se non recita questi versi, bens矛 quelli di un鈥檃ltra poesia, sempre di T.S. Eliot, intitolata The Hollow Men.
Se non che, Coppola inquadra nell鈥檃ntro di Kurtz un libro di Eliot insieme ad altri, e The Waste Land 猫 intriso del famoso romanzo di Conrad che viene sempre tirato in ballo a proposito del film di Coppola: la connessione sembra piuttosto diretta, e una cosa tira l鈥檃ltra, ho voluto leggere anche La terra desolata.
Apocalypse Now fu probabilmente il primo film in lingua originale che ho visto: era quella che all鈥檈poca si chiamava una 鈥減rima visione鈥�. Ero appena approdato in California per la prima volta, non potevo certo perderlo.
E ovviamente, l鈥檋o visto senza sottotitoli. Ho capito meno di met脿 di quanto veniva detto. La voce di Jim Morrison era la cosa pi霉 comprensibile, ma su quella ero gi脿 ben preparato, conoscevo la canzone a memoria.
Mi sono consolato con le immagini, potentissime.
Ho rivisto il film pi霉 e pi霉 volte, non solo perch茅 猫 molto bello, e perch茅 mi piace, ma anche perch茅 quella prima volta la mia comprensione era stata alquanto zoppicante.
In ogni caso fu esperienza utilissima: da allora guardo un film solo in originale (e possibilmente con i sottotitoli) 鈥� avremo anche i doppiatori pi霉 bravi del mondo, ma il doppiaggio sottrae a un film molto ma molto di pi霉 di quanto una traduzione sottragga a un libro letto nella sua lingua.
E poi, vogliamo dire di quando DeNiro, Hoffmann, Stallone, Pacino avevano tutti la stessa voce italiana, per giunta con un difetto di pronuncia (credo si definisca zeppola)?!
E poi, vogliamo dire che da quando ragioni economiche (= risparmio) hanno ridotto i tempi di doppiaggio, anche la qualit脿 dei migliori doppiatori del mondo 猫 ben altra?
La voce di Brando 猫 un鈥檃ltra esperienza imperdibile.
Il film di Coppola per una serie di circostanze 猫 ammantato di mistero, a cominciare dal momento della realizzazione, le riprese: un uragano che abbatte tutti i set, un鈥檌sola filippina incendiata e distrutta per esigenze di copione鈥� Vero o falso?
Alla premi猫re del Festival di Cannes, Coppola port貌 due versioni, o meglio due finali: in uno Willard torna a casa, nell鈥檃ltro rimane e prende il posto di Kurtz.
Ma le versioni del film sono di pi霉, non differiscono solo per il finale, da una all鈥檃ltra cambia molto la durata, si pu貌 arrivare a pi霉 di tre ore.
April 9, 2020
I would not presume to offer anything approaching a definitive judgment of this unique and influential poem, a poem which presents us鈥攊n early modernist fashion鈥攚ith a provocative collage of voices and scenes, fragments which Eliot has collected from the 鈥渉eap of broken images鈥� that litter the desert of our culture, but which he presents in a way that grants them new terror and new poignancy, in a way that shows us 鈥渇ear in a handful of dust鈥� and hints--if only by its absence--at the possibility of a greener world to come.
First off, let me say I was disappointed in this little edition. I picked it up initially because it contained an introduction by Paul Maldoon, an Irish poet with a reputation for allusiveness and obscurity鈥攋ust the sort to illuminate this fragmentary and cryptic masterpiece.
But his introduction is brief and not terribly helpful, and his enthusiasm for Irish literature leads him to see literary connections where they do not exist. For example, although I believe he is correct when he says the 鈥淣ighttown鈥� episode of Ulysses is a major influence on the poem, he is mistaken when he speculates that Eliot鈥檚 working title for it,鈥滺e Do the Police in Different Voices鈥� is also derived from this episode. (It is actually a quotation from a character in Dicken鈥檚 A Mutual Friend, who is describing the oral reading technique of her precocious foster child, how he brings to life the crime stories published in the sensational magazine, The Police Gazette.)
I was also disappointed in the lack of notes. I was looking for more extensive annotations, because I need them to help me unmask many references in this often obscure poem. But when they said 鈥渘otes,鈥� I guess the editors just meant Eliot鈥檚 original notes, which are almost invariably appended to the poem anyway, whatever the edition.
I鈥檒l end by reproducing a few passages which illustrate something I noticed for the first time this reading: the large number of gothic and decadent images in this poem. In spite of its classical allusions, modernist structure and tone, we are still not that far from the decadent 鈥�90鈥檚 here:
鈥淭hat corpse you planted last year in your garden,
鈥淗as it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
鈥淥r has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
鈥淥h keep the Dog far hence, that鈥檚 friend to men,
鈥淥r with his nails he鈥檒l dig it up again!
鈥淵ou! hypocrite lecteur!鈥攎on semblable,鈥攎on fr猫re!鈥�
* * * * * * * * *
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid鈥攖roubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours鈥�
* * * * * * * * *
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced...
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
* * * * * * * * *
A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank...
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat鈥檚 foot only, year to year.
* * * * * * * * *
Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
鈥擝ut who is that on the other side of you?
* * * * * * * *
A woman drew her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wings
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
In this decayed hole among the mountains
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind鈥檚 home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,
Dry bones can harm no one.
Only a cock stood on the rooftree
Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing rain
April 6, 2017
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
The above mentioned lines mark one of the most profound onsets in the history of modernist literature; and perhaps with eruption of the highly dense, heart pounding effusion, a magical spell envelops the reader who would be kept shifting between time and space, embark and decay of civilization, prophecy and satire, philosophy and faith, life and death throughout the mind-clouding, breath- taking journey of around 433 lines; of which, some can stand on their own alone protruding their beings through the undulations of nothingness. The ghostly but spectral voyage starts with The burial of dead , takes one along through the graveyards, stony mystical landscapes to hyacinth gardens, up to the magical but heart poundings scenes exuded out of mystery of tarot cards. At times, one might feel lost as if something unknown but with mighty prowess is carrying one to nowhere but then a sudden clout strikes your consciousness with a colossal impact, you are taken aback by sudden surge of the intensity as you come to Unreal City; and out of nowhere, death strikes you, Dante' s Inferno emerges out of cloud of your memory. You are taken through threads of life emerging out from dead. The game of black and white squares, arranged in an alternate manner to give a checkered impression, brings you to the stark absurdity of life- the change of Philomel embodies the absurdness prevailed in the life of Philomel which (who) has been transformed by gods, but as a compensation, and who cries her heart out of agony yet the world is so deaf and insensitive to her anguish that it occurs a heart-rending song to it. You are blown further on gust of wind towards a nether world where the most potent questions, but disguised under the sheath of ignorance (or perhaps incompetence), surge up by opening grand (ferocious) arms, from the depth of being and nothingness.
The idea of The Waste Land (perhaps) seems to be sprouted out of modern problems鈥攖he war, industrialization, abortion, urban life鈥攚hich the poet addresses in it and at the same time to participate in a literary tradition. Eliot once, famously, wrote his friend Conrad Akein: ''It's interesting to cut yourself to pieces once in a while and wait to see if the fragments will sprout", the imagination of Eliot resembles the decaying land that is the subject of the poem: nothing seems to take root among the stony rubbish left behind by old poems and scraps of popular culture. As the other poems of Eliot are, The Waste Land is highly symbolic and extensively use allusions, quotations (in several languages), a variety of verse forms, and a collage of poetic fragments to create the sense of speaking for an entire culture in crisis. It's a poem of radical doubt and negation, urging that every human desire be stilled except the desire for self-surrender, for restraint, and for peace. The poets has blend satire and absurdity so well that it looks probably a superhuman task to determine whether the use of some themes/ rhymes, in way which cajoles a seemingly comic effect, is deliberate or accidental as surfaces up. The poem is quite meticulously, but effortlessly, written in fragments- not like traditional verses- which would give altogether different effects to the reader when they are read in fragments or in entirely.
The poem concludes with a rapid series of allusive literary fragments: seven of the last eight lines are quotations. As one moves through these quotations, it might occur as if the poem becomes conscious of itself, the being of the poem emanates from the verbose kingdom of words and the poem itself stands in front of the reader- staring straight into the eyes of reader; and a sudden shiver runs through his/ her spine to realize what has just traverses through the scanner of 'conscious' eyes.
I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order?
London Bridge in falling down falling down falling down
Poi s'ascose mel foco che gil affina
Quando fiam uti chelidon- O swallow swallow
Le Prince d'Acquitane a la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fir you. Hieronymo's mad againe.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata
Shantih shantih shantih.
It's a great achievement in modernist art but one needs to be patient to truly feel the shivers of its magical existence; as it's a characteristic of modernism, the appreciation of the poem demands devotional labor as well as a sympathetic imagination. Beneath these meticulously crafted poetics lay assumptions about art that were curiously religious, and that fostered theories of poetry as a liturgy for the elect.
Excerpts
The Burial of Dead
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living or dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
O'ed und leer das Meer.
Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
WHAT THE THUNDER SAID
Who is the third who walks always beside you>
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gilding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
-But who is that on the other side of you?
Datta: what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful dancing of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed.
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
The above mentioned lines mark one of the most profound onsets in the history of modernist literature; and perhaps with eruption of the highly dense, heart pounding effusion, a magical spell envelops the reader who would be kept shifting between time and space, embark and decay of civilization, prophecy and satire, philosophy and faith, life and death throughout the mind-clouding, breath- taking journey of around 433 lines; of which, some can stand on their own alone protruding their beings through the undulations of nothingness. The ghostly but spectral voyage starts with The burial of dead , takes one along through the graveyards, stony mystical landscapes to hyacinth gardens, up to the magical but heart poundings scenes exuded out of mystery of tarot cards. At times, one might feel lost as if something unknown but with mighty prowess is carrying one to nowhere but then a sudden clout strikes your consciousness with a colossal impact, you are taken aback by sudden surge of the intensity as you come to Unreal City; and out of nowhere, death strikes you, Dante' s Inferno emerges out of cloud of your memory. You are taken through threads of life emerging out from dead. The game of black and white squares, arranged in an alternate manner to give a checkered impression, brings you to the stark absurdity of life- the change of Philomel embodies the absurdness prevailed in the life of Philomel which (who) has been transformed by gods, but as a compensation, and who cries her heart out of agony yet the world is so deaf and insensitive to her anguish that it occurs a heart-rending song to it. You are blown further on gust of wind towards a nether world where the most potent questions, but disguised under the sheath of ignorance (or perhaps incompetence), surge up by opening grand (ferocious) arms, from the depth of being and nothingness.
The idea of The Waste Land (perhaps) seems to be sprouted out of modern problems鈥攖he war, industrialization, abortion, urban life鈥攚hich the poet addresses in it and at the same time to participate in a literary tradition. Eliot once, famously, wrote his friend Conrad Akein: ''It's interesting to cut yourself to pieces once in a while and wait to see if the fragments will sprout", the imagination of Eliot resembles the decaying land that is the subject of the poem: nothing seems to take root among the stony rubbish left behind by old poems and scraps of popular culture. As the other poems of Eliot are, The Waste Land is highly symbolic and extensively use allusions, quotations (in several languages), a variety of verse forms, and a collage of poetic fragments to create the sense of speaking for an entire culture in crisis. It's a poem of radical doubt and negation, urging that every human desire be stilled except the desire for self-surrender, for restraint, and for peace. The poets has blend satire and absurdity so well that it looks probably a superhuman task to determine whether the use of some themes/ rhymes, in way which cajoles a seemingly comic effect, is deliberate or accidental as surfaces up. The poem is quite meticulously, but effortlessly, written in fragments- not like traditional verses- which would give altogether different effects to the reader when they are read in fragments or in entirely.
The poem concludes with a rapid series of allusive literary fragments: seven of the last eight lines are quotations. As one moves through these quotations, it might occur as if the poem becomes conscious of itself, the being of the poem emanates from the verbose kingdom of words and the poem itself stands in front of the reader- staring straight into the eyes of reader; and a sudden shiver runs through his/ her spine to realize what has just traverses through the scanner of 'conscious' eyes.
I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order?
London Bridge in falling down falling down falling down
Poi s'ascose mel foco che gil affina
Quando fiam uti chelidon- O swallow swallow
Le Prince d'Acquitane a la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fir you. Hieronymo's mad againe.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata
Shantih shantih shantih.
It's a great achievement in modernist art but one needs to be patient to truly feel the shivers of its magical existence; as it's a characteristic of modernism, the appreciation of the poem demands devotional labor as well as a sympathetic imagination. Beneath these meticulously crafted poetics lay assumptions about art that were curiously religious, and that fostered theories of poetry as a liturgy for the elect.
Excerpts
The Burial of Dead
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living or dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
O'ed und leer das Meer.
Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
WHAT THE THUNDER SAID
Who is the third who walks always beside you>
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gilding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
-But who is that on the other side of you?
Datta: what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful dancing of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed.
August 7, 2019
Some people are born to become the trendsetters and I will say that T. S. Eliot has opened the new gates to poetry after the publication of his masterpiece The Waste Land. Poetry was supposed to be about lyrics and music only. He created a different kind of disturbing music but that rang to the ears the alarming sound of perversion in humanity... The Waste Land will be remembered for its uniqueness and incompleteness and even then, for creating a new trend...
March 25, 2017
This is the hardest poem I鈥檝e ever read. Certainly, the difficulty experienced when reading something is not enough reason to leave a bad review. I鈥檓 currently reading Ulysses, a notoriously difficult book, but I am enjoying it nonetheless. This, however, is an entirely different creature.
Despite being an English student I do find poetry difficult. It may be because of my background. I transferred from sciences into English, so I had very little experience beyond a few poems I read at school. So when I entered the world of poetry at degree level I was way out of my depth. It took me a long time to catch up on what I鈥檇 missed, and it took me even longer to actually enjoy poetry. The point is reading poetry is different to reading novels. It鈥檚 harder to do, and I have to concentrate greatly to do it. But, every so often, when you find the right poem for you, it takes you away as you become lost in a mirage of words, images and metaphors. And sometimes, it strikes a chord within you and you feel everything the poem is saying.
The Waste Land does none of these things. Instead it bombards you with countless intertextual references and information. In order to gain a thorough a succinct understanding of this poem, a poem that takes no longer than thirty minutes to read, I would likely have to spend five-six hours researching the meaning of the terminology, phrasing and historical mentions. That鈥檚 how difficult it is. Perhaps if I was a white middle class, highly educated man from the nineteen-twenties then I might be able to appreciate this poem more. But, as it stands, I鈥檓 not!
The worse thing about the poem for me is its lack of coherency. This in itself is not a bad thing. It鈥檚 a modernist text; this is what modernist authors did. But, when combined with the fact that the surface level of the writing is near incomprehensible to me, it became rather a painful experience to read it. There are some obvious things to take from the poem. It is post world war one and the content is an image of the destruction that followed, the deprivation, the sadness, the darkness and, of course, the actually wasted land ruined by war. But these images aren鈥檛 enough for me to enjoy the poem.
It would be like reading Shakespeare鈥檚 The Tempest and coming to the conclusion that it is a play about the follies of revenge. This is true, but it is also about many other things that combine to form a piece of artistic brilliance. When I read The Waste Land I feel stupid. I feel like I鈥檓 reading something that I cannot quite understand, and this annoys me. I feel like at times T.S Elliot is being pretentious, inserting references just do demonstrate his intellect rather than contribute something meaningful to the poem at large. And I don鈥檛 like it. I don't want to find out what they mean.
For me this poem is everything great poetry shouldn鈥檛 be. But this is just my opinion. For the right reader this poem would be excellence itself. However, it鈥檚 not something I鈥檇 personally recommend. And, if that wasn't enough, as a side note, T.S Eliot is highly critical towards Shelley- we could never get on!
Despite being an English student I do find poetry difficult. It may be because of my background. I transferred from sciences into English, so I had very little experience beyond a few poems I read at school. So when I entered the world of poetry at degree level I was way out of my depth. It took me a long time to catch up on what I鈥檇 missed, and it took me even longer to actually enjoy poetry. The point is reading poetry is different to reading novels. It鈥檚 harder to do, and I have to concentrate greatly to do it. But, every so often, when you find the right poem for you, it takes you away as you become lost in a mirage of words, images and metaphors. And sometimes, it strikes a chord within you and you feel everything the poem is saying.
The Waste Land does none of these things. Instead it bombards you with countless intertextual references and information. In order to gain a thorough a succinct understanding of this poem, a poem that takes no longer than thirty minutes to read, I would likely have to spend five-six hours researching the meaning of the terminology, phrasing and historical mentions. That鈥檚 how difficult it is. Perhaps if I was a white middle class, highly educated man from the nineteen-twenties then I might be able to appreciate this poem more. But, as it stands, I鈥檓 not!
The worse thing about the poem for me is its lack of coherency. This in itself is not a bad thing. It鈥檚 a modernist text; this is what modernist authors did. But, when combined with the fact that the surface level of the writing is near incomprehensible to me, it became rather a painful experience to read it. There are some obvious things to take from the poem. It is post world war one and the content is an image of the destruction that followed, the deprivation, the sadness, the darkness and, of course, the actually wasted land ruined by war. But these images aren鈥檛 enough for me to enjoy the poem.
It would be like reading Shakespeare鈥檚 The Tempest and coming to the conclusion that it is a play about the follies of revenge. This is true, but it is also about many other things that combine to form a piece of artistic brilliance. When I read The Waste Land I feel stupid. I feel like I鈥檓 reading something that I cannot quite understand, and this annoys me. I feel like at times T.S Elliot is being pretentious, inserting references just do demonstrate his intellect rather than contribute something meaningful to the poem at large. And I don鈥檛 like it. I don't want to find out what they mean.
For me this poem is everything great poetry shouldn鈥檛 be. But this is just my opinion. For the right reader this poem would be excellence itself. However, it鈥檚 not something I鈥檇 personally recommend. And, if that wasn't enough, as a side note, T.S Eliot is highly critical towards Shelley- we could never get on!
September 22, 2009
This Pisses Me Off and Makes Me Feel Like a Moron
I've had to read this twice in the course of my education, and I don't like it one bit, though I thoroughly appreciate its status and importance. Sort of like my attitude to atomic weapons. You wouldn't dismiss atomic weapons as 'crap', but you could legitimately say 'I appreciate their significance but I don't like them at all.'
I don't think there has ever been more literary masturbation about any other piece of writing than The Wasteland, and I personally found it charmless, aloof and with nothing to engage my wish to push through that first impression.
Yes, it's all the pieces of the 'shattered' classical world, thrown together in a different and hideous mixture to reflect the modernists' belief that the world as they knew it, and all previous literary forms, weren't up to the task of reflecting their contemporary world - but I really don't like the result. It doesn't engage me and it doesn't illuminate me. Maybe that was the point. Still don't like it, and I'm not in university anymore, so I don't have to try to keep up with the intellectual dick-swinging which surrounds this piece. Thanks but no thanks.
Anything this determinedly difficult just puts my back up, and the more I learn of Eliot himself the less I feel like tackling it. Okay, Eliot, you're a misogynistic, anti-Semitic elitist who doesn't think anyone without a classical education is worthy of reading your work.
Well, fine. Fuck you. I'll take my comprehensive-educated Jewish arse elsewhere.
I've had to read this twice in the course of my education, and I don't like it one bit, though I thoroughly appreciate its status and importance. Sort of like my attitude to atomic weapons. You wouldn't dismiss atomic weapons as 'crap', but you could legitimately say 'I appreciate their significance but I don't like them at all.'
I don't think there has ever been more literary masturbation about any other piece of writing than The Wasteland, and I personally found it charmless, aloof and with nothing to engage my wish to push through that first impression.
Yes, it's all the pieces of the 'shattered' classical world, thrown together in a different and hideous mixture to reflect the modernists' belief that the world as they knew it, and all previous literary forms, weren't up to the task of reflecting their contemporary world - but I really don't like the result. It doesn't engage me and it doesn't illuminate me. Maybe that was the point. Still don't like it, and I'm not in university anymore, so I don't have to try to keep up with the intellectual dick-swinging which surrounds this piece. Thanks but no thanks.
Anything this determinedly difficult just puts my back up, and the more I learn of Eliot himself the less I feel like tackling it. Okay, Eliot, you're a misogynistic, anti-Semitic elitist who doesn't think anyone without a classical education is worthy of reading your work.
Well, fine. Fuck you. I'll take my comprehensive-educated Jewish arse elsewhere.
February 12, 2019
I quite often cite the famous line "April is the cruellest month" completely out of context. And I happily refer to The Waste Land and Eliot's Nobel Prize when I do.
However, I can't say I ever understood the long trail of lines that it contains, even though I read it several times.
And most bizarre of all, I don't even agree with my favourite quote from it. FEBRUARY is the cruellest month: dark and cold and wet, and no end in sight!
Somehow, I don't think I missed the point of the poem though, by misquoting, by disagreeing with the statement, and by not getting it at all. I think The Waste Land means just that: human confusion on all levels expressed in poetic language.
February is the stupidest month too, so I might be wrong.
However, I can't say I ever understood the long trail of lines that it contains, even though I read it several times.
And most bizarre of all, I don't even agree with my favourite quote from it. FEBRUARY is the cruellest month: dark and cold and wet, and no end in sight!
Somehow, I don't think I missed the point of the poem though, by misquoting, by disagreeing with the statement, and by not getting it at all. I think The Waste Land means just that: human confusion on all levels expressed in poetic language.
February is the stupidest month too, so I might be wrong.
August 15, 2023
Poetry from the Depths mixes references from the past to the contemporary world of that young twentieth century. The flower of words feeds on hummus, and TS Eliot considers this beauty born of the ugly, the unpleasant, and the dreary. Thus, modern life and its dull appearance become spaces of a poetic genre that we would like to confine to the imaginary and the dream. The fog and the dirty glass impose their presence through the verb, which gives them a new weight, almost a new value. An Anglo-Saxon classic to taste in translation or the original language!
December 6, 2020
86th book of 2020.
I am going to create what my mind was like when I read this, for the first time, late at night, with Eliot in my ear, eyes on the page. With images coming in and out of focus, and maybe memories, or new memories, new dreams, interfering. Eliot is italicised. I am not.
The Burial of the Dead
April is the cruellest month. I was born in April, rather, born on the same day as Adolf Hitler: April 20th. It is true, I read, much of the night, and I dream of going south in the winter. No, south from here is only water, the faithful sea. Swimming the other day: the cold surprised us, as it always does. Skin salt and slick. And underwater, like forgetful snow, for all the fears washed from my head 鈥� they were replaced with water. But it is not Death by Water yet. My swimming took me back to the Pyrenees, walking in the hills, swimming in the rivers鈥� in the mountains, there you feel free. A dog鈥檚 bark. Pine needles. And on the balcony, with a shower of rain - followed by thunder (allow me to move further into the poem here: DA). The thunder rolled through the mountains 鈥� in the winter, it makes the snow quiver, and fall from the leaves. I often wonder if a tree鈥檚 voice would be muffled from under so much snow鈥�Son of man, You cannot say, or guess. When the thunder and the snow held, and the summer surprised us, we drank coffee, and talked for an hour on that balcony, just a stone鈥檚 throw from my bed, draped with a mosquito net 鈥� as if a veil. I鈥檒l say again, I read, much of the night. France, like all other travels, return to me in broken images. Back in England- under the brown fog of a winter dawn, memories roll away, as if thunder through the mountains. Those broken images remain. Maybe I鈥檒l dream, that in a crowd there is a man I know, with his face turned away. Maybe I鈥檒l dream that he has a man buried in his garden. I ask what kind of tree would grow from the body of a man? Answer: A tree that would whisper through layers of snow.
A Game of Chess
Sweat down my back like salt. My brother strikes down a Bishop, I feel fear for a Rook. The sun reflecting light upon the table. In these moments of silence, between another Pawn鈥檚 demise, one鈥檚 mind cannot help but wander. A girl I once knew, learning the movements of a King, or Queen. Her parents footsteps shuffled on the stair. I could say anything, 鈥淢y nerves are bad tonight.鈥� She would not listen. And as I read late into the night 鈥� purple ink through her curtains 鈥� she said, 鈥淲hy do you never speak. Speak. What are you thinking of?鈥� So the memories loop. We are bored, so I say 鈥� We shall play a game of chess. There is no chance of rain. Even as we play we wonder, What shall we do tomorrow? There is nothing more to do. Another Pawn falls. HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME - dinner. We eat quietly 鈥� memories drifting like snow. Until, good night, good night, until tomorrow.
The Fire Sermon
For I have finished University now, and the list of people to ring has been cleaved in two. No more empty bottles on a kitchen table at night, no more cigarette butts. Not a single testimony of summer nights. Before University, my friends left school, and left left no addresses. One in Bath. One in Dubai. In College we went to Rome together- we learnt of Carthage 鈥� now Tunisia. Rome was our ethereal city, we said 鈥� the Tiber sweats! The peal of bells white towers! And like all great war, burning burning burning burning. If I were Tiresias, I would have known that our days were numbered, that all days are numbered. That time is unstoppable. If only I could be throbbing between two lives, I cry. I sat down and wept once for them, in the past, and now I do so in the present: the last fingers of leaf clutch and sink into the wet bank - and they are swept away 鈥� forgotten, as I.
Death by Water
Returning again to the sea, entering the whirlpool. The water drags one down. My brother almost drowned in a capsized boat. But he didn鈥檛, we are home now, around the cry of gulls, with our parents. My mother quiet. My father not. He laughs, crinkle-eyed, and says I was once handsome and tall as you - and my brother and I take that for him saying 鈥� I know I am getting older.
What the Thunder Said
I have spoken of thunder. The downpours in France, England, Croatia鈥� I remember them well. The night after thunder on the beach, clear again: sweat is dry and feet are in the sand, the tide plays with us. Silhouetted mountains of rock - but tomorrow, there will be thunder without rain. Back in the Pyrenees there is not even solitude in the mountains. The cicada has its own chorus. The grass is always singing. When my brother returned from his travels in India, Asia, we all wanted to ask who is that on the other side of you?, as if he brought someone home with him, as if he had grown an extra shadow, become a new man. Travelling gives us rebirth 鈥� even in our empty rooms in Dubrovnik, Yosemite, Budapest, we cut down an old self to create a new one. We whisper: We who were living are now dying. We can tell ourselves this things when we are away from home, because when we are away from home, nothing scares us. I look ahead up the white road - my future 鈥� and see, sometimes, falling towers, and other times, a palace. There are reasons. We cannot know how many cycles are left within us, how many times we will be reborn. We do not know where we will go or what we will find. We may find Paradise. Or we may find The Waste land. And yet, I believe, that even in The Waste Land, there is chance for rebirth, for a metamorphosis. These fragments I have shored against my ruins. In a flash of lightning I am, again, anew.
I am going to create what my mind was like when I read this, for the first time, late at night, with Eliot in my ear, eyes on the page. With images coming in and out of focus, and maybe memories, or new memories, new dreams, interfering. Eliot is italicised. I am not.
The Burial of the Dead
April is the cruellest month. I was born in April, rather, born on the same day as Adolf Hitler: April 20th. It is true, I read, much of the night, and I dream of going south in the winter. No, south from here is only water, the faithful sea. Swimming the other day: the cold surprised us, as it always does. Skin salt and slick. And underwater, like forgetful snow, for all the fears washed from my head 鈥� they were replaced with water. But it is not Death by Water yet. My swimming took me back to the Pyrenees, walking in the hills, swimming in the rivers鈥� in the mountains, there you feel free. A dog鈥檚 bark. Pine needles. And on the balcony, with a shower of rain - followed by thunder (allow me to move further into the poem here: DA). The thunder rolled through the mountains 鈥� in the winter, it makes the snow quiver, and fall from the leaves. I often wonder if a tree鈥檚 voice would be muffled from under so much snow鈥�Son of man, You cannot say, or guess. When the thunder and the snow held, and the summer surprised us, we drank coffee, and talked for an hour on that balcony, just a stone鈥檚 throw from my bed, draped with a mosquito net 鈥� as if a veil. I鈥檒l say again, I read, much of the night. France, like all other travels, return to me in broken images. Back in England- under the brown fog of a winter dawn, memories roll away, as if thunder through the mountains. Those broken images remain. Maybe I鈥檒l dream, that in a crowd there is a man I know, with his face turned away. Maybe I鈥檒l dream that he has a man buried in his garden. I ask what kind of tree would grow from the body of a man? Answer: A tree that would whisper through layers of snow.
A Game of Chess
Sweat down my back like salt. My brother strikes down a Bishop, I feel fear for a Rook. The sun reflecting light upon the table. In these moments of silence, between another Pawn鈥檚 demise, one鈥檚 mind cannot help but wander. A girl I once knew, learning the movements of a King, or Queen. Her parents footsteps shuffled on the stair. I could say anything, 鈥淢y nerves are bad tonight.鈥� She would not listen. And as I read late into the night 鈥� purple ink through her curtains 鈥� she said, 鈥淲hy do you never speak. Speak. What are you thinking of?鈥� So the memories loop. We are bored, so I say 鈥� We shall play a game of chess. There is no chance of rain. Even as we play we wonder, What shall we do tomorrow? There is nothing more to do. Another Pawn falls. HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME - dinner. We eat quietly 鈥� memories drifting like snow. Until, good night, good night, until tomorrow.
The Fire Sermon
For I have finished University now, and the list of people to ring has been cleaved in two. No more empty bottles on a kitchen table at night, no more cigarette butts. Not a single testimony of summer nights. Before University, my friends left school, and left left no addresses. One in Bath. One in Dubai. In College we went to Rome together- we learnt of Carthage 鈥� now Tunisia. Rome was our ethereal city, we said 鈥� the Tiber sweats! The peal of bells white towers! And like all great war, burning burning burning burning. If I were Tiresias, I would have known that our days were numbered, that all days are numbered. That time is unstoppable. If only I could be throbbing between two lives, I cry. I sat down and wept once for them, in the past, and now I do so in the present: the last fingers of leaf clutch and sink into the wet bank - and they are swept away 鈥� forgotten, as I.
Death by Water
Returning again to the sea, entering the whirlpool. The water drags one down. My brother almost drowned in a capsized boat. But he didn鈥檛, we are home now, around the cry of gulls, with our parents. My mother quiet. My father not. He laughs, crinkle-eyed, and says I was once handsome and tall as you - and my brother and I take that for him saying 鈥� I know I am getting older.
What the Thunder Said
I have spoken of thunder. The downpours in France, England, Croatia鈥� I remember them well. The night after thunder on the beach, clear again: sweat is dry and feet are in the sand, the tide plays with us. Silhouetted mountains of rock - but tomorrow, there will be thunder without rain. Back in the Pyrenees there is not even solitude in the mountains. The cicada has its own chorus. The grass is always singing. When my brother returned from his travels in India, Asia, we all wanted to ask who is that on the other side of you?, as if he brought someone home with him, as if he had grown an extra shadow, become a new man. Travelling gives us rebirth 鈥� even in our empty rooms in Dubrovnik, Yosemite, Budapest, we cut down an old self to create a new one. We whisper: We who were living are now dying. We can tell ourselves this things when we are away from home, because when we are away from home, nothing scares us. I look ahead up the white road - my future 鈥� and see, sometimes, falling towers, and other times, a palace. There are reasons. We cannot know how many cycles are left within us, how many times we will be reborn. We do not know where we will go or what we will find. We may find Paradise. Or we may find The Waste land. And yet, I believe, that even in The Waste Land, there is chance for rebirth, for a metamorphosis. These fragments I have shored against my ruins. In a flash of lightning I am, again, anew.
June 3, 2022
Akin to a cubist painting, this long poem is told through broken images, seemingly disjointed fragments, and narrated by multiple voices, with the narrator occasionally reemerging in different episodes with a brief commentary, often cryptic, while at other times, albeit rarely, illuminating. Behind this towering endeavor in poetic modernism, there is a profound sense of melancholy for it reads as Eliot鈥檚 personal lament as well as his quest for a spiritual answer to the alienated, lonely and debased life brought upon by the decadence and degradation of modern times. And it still resonates in this centenary year of its publication. The "waste land" is above all spiritual on two planes-personal and civilizational. On the whole, it seems that for Eliot the 鈥渕emory and desire鈥� (already mentioned in the 3rd line), laden with multiple meanings/contexts through the poem, are at the root of suffering in interpersonal relations between the sexes (inflicting equally all levels of the social hierarchy) and in society at large, culminating in the bloodshed of World War I.
The poem is very complicated, it鈥檚 monumental in literary, mythological and religious references, impossible to decipher without good annotations. Eliot himself provided the notes, reproduced in the edition I read, that refer to the sources that inspired particular passages, usually inserted in the poem as quotes that underwent different kinds of metamorphoses in his hands. They are encyclopedic in range, whether from (The Tempest, Anthony and Cleopatra, Hamlet, Coriolanus), Dante鈥檚 , Virgil鈥檚 , Ovid鈥檚 , Wagner鈥檚 Der Ring des Nibelungen and Tristan und Isolde, Augustine鈥檚 , the Buddha鈥檚 Fire Sermon, The Upanishads, The Bible, Frazer鈥檚 , Baudelaire鈥檚 , and dozens and dozens of others. While essential for understanding Eliot鈥檚 personal inspirations, his notes are certainly not sufficient to understand all the allusions in the poem鈥檚 text, including those referencing particular names or scenes in London鈥檚 life in the early 1920s. Since different passages and the poem as a whole have been variously interpreted, I feel that a first-time reader, like myself, is best served with informative annotations rather than with an interpretive commentary.
There is an excellent documentary that gives a general sense of The Waste Land and Eliot鈥檚 life, with the phenomenal Eileen Atkins, Michael Gough and Edward Fox reading the excerpts, and discussed by no less than Stephen Spender, Frank Kermode, Peter Ackroyd, and others.
4.5/5
(.5 taken off as the poem cannot be read and interpreted on its own without annotations about numerous allusions and often obscure references)
The poem is very complicated, it鈥檚 monumental in literary, mythological and religious references, impossible to decipher without good annotations. Eliot himself provided the notes, reproduced in the edition I read, that refer to the sources that inspired particular passages, usually inserted in the poem as quotes that underwent different kinds of metamorphoses in his hands. They are encyclopedic in range, whether from (The Tempest, Anthony and Cleopatra, Hamlet, Coriolanus), Dante鈥檚 , Virgil鈥檚 , Ovid鈥檚 , Wagner鈥檚 Der Ring des Nibelungen and Tristan und Isolde, Augustine鈥檚 , the Buddha鈥檚 Fire Sermon, The Upanishads, The Bible, Frazer鈥檚 , Baudelaire鈥檚 , and dozens and dozens of others. While essential for understanding Eliot鈥檚 personal inspirations, his notes are certainly not sufficient to understand all the allusions in the poem鈥檚 text, including those referencing particular names or scenes in London鈥檚 life in the early 1920s. Since different passages and the poem as a whole have been variously interpreted, I feel that a first-time reader, like myself, is best served with informative annotations rather than with an interpretive commentary.
There is an excellent documentary that gives a general sense of The Waste Land and Eliot鈥檚 life, with the phenomenal Eileen Atkins, Michael Gough and Edward Fox reading the excerpts, and discussed by no less than Stephen Spender, Frank Kermode, Peter Ackroyd, and others.
4.5/5
(.5 taken off as the poem cannot be read and interpreted on its own without annotations about numerous allusions and often obscure references)
October 9, 2024
Eliot is the cruelest poet...
Why do I hate The Waste Land? (And by extension, why do I despise Eliot?) It鈥檚 language is exquisite and evocative. Erudite layers of meaning and obscure symbolism play hide and seek through its stanzas, providing endless hours of study for literary scholars. It鈥檚 clearly a brilliant poem, and Eliot, just as clearly, a genius. So why, you ask, do I hate it so?
T.S. Eliot murdered Poetry. The Waste Land (to simplify things) was the murder weapon. He didn鈥檛 do it alone 鈥� as in the assassination of Caesar, he had accomplices (other Modernists). But he was clearly the Cassius of the crime. He found Poetry a vibrant, living, gregarious art that enlivened and enriched the lives of the masses. He left it cold and dead, something to be dissected on the autopsy tables of academia, but shunned by the public as all dead things are.
Ever since this infamous murder, the body of Poetry has been the exclusive property of coroner critics and specimen collecting literati. Any attempt to revive the corpse, to restore Poetry as a living thing to the masses is now itself seen as a crime met with the capital punishment of literary oblivion.
That is why I hate The Waste Land so. It is indeed an exquisite poem 鈥� a beautiful blade used to eviscerate the Beloved.
Why do I hate The Waste Land? (And by extension, why do I despise Eliot?) It鈥檚 language is exquisite and evocative. Erudite layers of meaning and obscure symbolism play hide and seek through its stanzas, providing endless hours of study for literary scholars. It鈥檚 clearly a brilliant poem, and Eliot, just as clearly, a genius. So why, you ask, do I hate it so?
T.S. Eliot murdered Poetry. The Waste Land (to simplify things) was the murder weapon. He didn鈥檛 do it alone 鈥� as in the assassination of Caesar, he had accomplices (other Modernists). But he was clearly the Cassius of the crime. He found Poetry a vibrant, living, gregarious art that enlivened and enriched the lives of the masses. He left it cold and dead, something to be dissected on the autopsy tables of academia, but shunned by the public as all dead things are.
Ever since this infamous murder, the body of Poetry has been the exclusive property of coroner critics and specimen collecting literati. Any attempt to revive the corpse, to restore Poetry as a living thing to the masses is now itself seen as a crime met with the capital punishment of literary oblivion.
That is why I hate The Waste Land so. It is indeed an exquisite poem 鈥� a beautiful blade used to eviscerate the Beloved.
December 18, 2020
鈥淎 heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water.鈥�
鈥淭he Wasteland鈥�, a poem at the deepening crux of modernism, is a whirlwind of broken, disparate pieces fitting to explore T.S. Eliot鈥檚 vision of a nihilistic world where gentle, purifying youth and spiritual inclinations/beliefs, which assuage us on the terrifying, fleeting journey of existence, float into thin air and lose their ability to free us as even the most calming, cleansing idea of an antidote, water, leads to our inevitable deaths. There is something relentlessly oppressive, habitually slovenly, and drenched chillingly in how haunting it can be to live and feel, which characterizes this poem鈥檚 greatest intricacies, as it never backs away from entering into the messy realm of our own sentience and ability to perceive that the end will eventually draw near.
This idea of the universe becomes absurdly paradoxical as the poem speaks of being able to not connect nothing with nothing. That calls to mind a feeling of desperate alienation and lack of ability to make sense of anything, as you walk around in a confused blizzard of your own making, which exists amidst the depths of your own self-created wasteland. As you also find yourself living in a horrifying purgatory in which you鈥檙e 鈥渘either / Living nor dead鈥� and you continue to know nothing, as silence washes over you mixed with vacant light. However, there could also be and arise an omnipotent presence of a dulled optimism, amidst the trapping idea of purgatory, as between living and death springs up like an incalculable flower the capacity to just quietly exist. As that slight awareness of existence fills the hollowed parts of our soul like a herbal tea warming our insides in which we鈥檝e felt a bitter chill for so long.
鈥淎 current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.鈥�
These lines continually whisper with the vividness of harried existentialism with the faintness of a beauty, which exists in beckoning calamity and breathless quietude, astir with temptation and desire to believe and hope. Because to believe and to hope is to stay sane amongst the greater puzzle and riddles that besiege our existence and world. We will never understand or be able to translate the foreignness of an experience we鈥檝e never lived or understand even the closeness of the world that lives underneath our feet and that was much the feeling that surrounded parts of this poem, but other parts stood out to me with a clarity that I couldn鈥檛 deny because those parts were part of the ornately rich tapestry, which strings us together, marking a world in which we are connected by our own universality and shared sense of the beauty and pain of the human experience.
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water.鈥�
鈥淭he Wasteland鈥�, a poem at the deepening crux of modernism, is a whirlwind of broken, disparate pieces fitting to explore T.S. Eliot鈥檚 vision of a nihilistic world where gentle, purifying youth and spiritual inclinations/beliefs, which assuage us on the terrifying, fleeting journey of existence, float into thin air and lose their ability to free us as even the most calming, cleansing idea of an antidote, water, leads to our inevitable deaths. There is something relentlessly oppressive, habitually slovenly, and drenched chillingly in how haunting it can be to live and feel, which characterizes this poem鈥檚 greatest intricacies, as it never backs away from entering into the messy realm of our own sentience and ability to perceive that the end will eventually draw near.
This idea of the universe becomes absurdly paradoxical as the poem speaks of being able to not connect nothing with nothing. That calls to mind a feeling of desperate alienation and lack of ability to make sense of anything, as you walk around in a confused blizzard of your own making, which exists amidst the depths of your own self-created wasteland. As you also find yourself living in a horrifying purgatory in which you鈥檙e 鈥渘either / Living nor dead鈥� and you continue to know nothing, as silence washes over you mixed with vacant light. However, there could also be and arise an omnipotent presence of a dulled optimism, amidst the trapping idea of purgatory, as between living and death springs up like an incalculable flower the capacity to just quietly exist. As that slight awareness of existence fills the hollowed parts of our soul like a herbal tea warming our insides in which we鈥檝e felt a bitter chill for so long.
鈥淎 current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.鈥�
These lines continually whisper with the vividness of harried existentialism with the faintness of a beauty, which exists in beckoning calamity and breathless quietude, astir with temptation and desire to believe and hope. Because to believe and to hope is to stay sane amongst the greater puzzle and riddles that besiege our existence and world. We will never understand or be able to translate the foreignness of an experience we鈥檝e never lived or understand even the closeness of the world that lives underneath our feet and that was much the feeling that surrounded parts of this poem, but other parts stood out to me with a clarity that I couldn鈥檛 deny because those parts were part of the ornately rich tapestry, which strings us together, marking a world in which we are connected by our own universality and shared sense of the beauty and pain of the human experience.
March 29, 2017
I must confess. I have no idea what I just read. But it was the most beautiful thing.
February 12, 2017
賴乇 賲丐賱賮 賮賯胤 鬲丕 爻賴 亘丕乇 賮乇氐鬲 丿丕乇賴 丌丿賲 乇賵 鬲丨鬲 鬲兀孬蹖乇 賯乇丕乇 亘丿賴貙 鬲丕 賵賯鬲蹖 讴賴 亘賴 讴賱蹖 讴賳丕乇 诏匕丕卮鬲賴 亘卮賴.
鬲蹖 丕爻 丕賱蹖賵鬲 鬲丕 丨丕賱丕 丿賵 鬲丕 賮乇氐鬲卮 乇賵 爻賵禺鬲 讴乇丿賴!!
鬲蹖 丕爻 丕賱蹖賵鬲 鬲丕 丨丕賱丕 丿賵 鬲丕 賮乇氐鬲卮 乇賵 爻賵禺鬲 讴乇丿賴!!
January 24, 2024
I first heard of the famous poem, "The Wasteland", by T.S. Eliot back when I was about 9-years old, reading through an encyclopedia piece on T.S. Eliot. I've heard much about this poem in general over the years, but have never actually read it until now.
I have to say, after all the decades of build up about it, I was disappointed.
I wonder, if I had the lack of integrity to do so, what grade I might have gotten from my AP English high school teacher, Mrs. Snow, if I'd just taken "The Wasteland", and passed it off as my own --- assuming she also had never read the poem before. I tend to think I'd have been lucky to earn a "D".
It's a bunch of doggerel --- a patchwork of random, incoherent catch phrases, Greek mythology, and quotes from Wagner and other writers/ poets. There is no consistent theme or motif or point that I can see in "The Wasteland".
I have to wonder if Eliot is putting us on --- writing some nonsense just for the amusement of watching effete intellectuals strive to come up with analyses and rationales for why it's supposedly great. The poem itself is not the bulk of this book --- the poem is about 20 pages long, with the majority of the rest being literature professors at pains to explain to us lesser proles how clever it is. It reminded me of art critics rhapsodizing about a bunch of random paint drippings on a canvas or a pile of junk randomly fastened together being great modern art pieces. Several essays praise "The Wasteland" for its incoherence, for example. Too funny --- we spend years and years trying to teach students to write effectively and clearly -- and to read poetry and see symbolism and underlying themes within them --- since incoherence comes naturally to most beginning writers. Then, some critics turn around and find something artistic and fresh and amazing in some writer like this one writing a meaningless, chaotic screed.
Bad enough -- -but the essays in this book on "The Wasteland" are astonishingly insipid. I feel badly for any English literature students having to sit through a lecture by such professors --- it likely ruined them from ever wanting to venture into reading or trying to enjoy poetry with their dull, pedantic, verbose observations.
I've read much better poetry than this over the last five decades. I don't read poetry often --- last time, I read some was a book of Bedouin poetry about 8-9 years ago --- and got to say that the poetry of poor, illiterate nomads --- telling of feeling longing or loss or striving to survive --- was so much more enjoyable, moving, and profound than this vastly overrated work.
I have to say, after all the decades of build up about it, I was disappointed.
I wonder, if I had the lack of integrity to do so, what grade I might have gotten from my AP English high school teacher, Mrs. Snow, if I'd just taken "The Wasteland", and passed it off as my own --- assuming she also had never read the poem before. I tend to think I'd have been lucky to earn a "D".
It's a bunch of doggerel --- a patchwork of random, incoherent catch phrases, Greek mythology, and quotes from Wagner and other writers/ poets. There is no consistent theme or motif or point that I can see in "The Wasteland".
I have to wonder if Eliot is putting us on --- writing some nonsense just for the amusement of watching effete intellectuals strive to come up with analyses and rationales for why it's supposedly great. The poem itself is not the bulk of this book --- the poem is about 20 pages long, with the majority of the rest being literature professors at pains to explain to us lesser proles how clever it is. It reminded me of art critics rhapsodizing about a bunch of random paint drippings on a canvas or a pile of junk randomly fastened together being great modern art pieces. Several essays praise "The Wasteland" for its incoherence, for example. Too funny --- we spend years and years trying to teach students to write effectively and clearly -- and to read poetry and see symbolism and underlying themes within them --- since incoherence comes naturally to most beginning writers. Then, some critics turn around and find something artistic and fresh and amazing in some writer like this one writing a meaningless, chaotic screed.
Bad enough -- -but the essays in this book on "The Wasteland" are astonishingly insipid. I feel badly for any English literature students having to sit through a lecture by such professors --- it likely ruined them from ever wanting to venture into reading or trying to enjoy poetry with their dull, pedantic, verbose observations.
I've read much better poetry than this over the last five decades. I don't read poetry often --- last time, I read some was a book of Bedouin poetry about 8-9 years ago --- and got to say that the poetry of poor, illiterate nomads --- telling of feeling longing or loss or striving to survive --- was so much more enjoyable, moving, and profound than this vastly overrated work.
Read
April 28, 2019危蟺慰蠀未伪委慰 未蔚委纬渭伪 渭蔚蟿伪渭慰谓蟿蔚蟻谓喂蟽渭慰蠉. 螠慰蠀 维蟻蔚蟽蔚, 委蟽蠅蟼 纬喂伪蟿委 未蔚谓 未喂维尾伪蟽伪 蟺慰蟿苇 魏维蟿喂 蟺伪蟻蠈渭慰喂慰. 螕喂伪 苇谓伪 蟺蔚蟻委蔚蟻纬慰 位蠈纬慰 渭慰蠀 胃蠉渭喂蟽蔚 蟿伪 蟺慰喂萎渭伪蟿伪 蟿慰蠀 James Douglas (Jim) Morrison, 蟺慰蠀 未喂维尾伪蟽伪 蟺蟻喂谓 20 蠂蟻蠈谓喂伪.
螢蔚魏委谓畏蟽伪 伪蟺蠈 蟿畏 渭蔚蟿维蠁蟻伪蟽畏, 畏 慰蟺慰委伪 魏蠀位慰蠉蟽蔚 魏伪位维 蟽蔚 纬蔚谓喂魏苇蟼 纬蟻伪渭渭苇蟼 苇蠅蟼 蠈蟿慰蠀 蟽蠀谓维谓蟿畏蟽伪 位苇尉蔚喂蟼 蟺慰蠀 未蔚谓 魏慰位位慰蠉蟽伪谓 蔚渭蠁伪谓苇蟽蟿伪蟿伪, 慰蟺蠈蟿蔚 蟽蠀谓苇蠂喂蟽伪 渭蔚 蟿慰 蟺蟻蠅蟿蠈蟿蠀蟺慰, 蟺慰蠀 未蔚谓 萎蟿伪谓 未蠉蟽魏慰位慰. 螚 苇魏未慰蟽畏 蟺慰蠀 苇蠂蠅 蔚委谓伪喂 蟿蠅谓 Gutenberg, 蔚谓蠋 蔚委蠂伪 蠅蟼 渭苇蟿蟻慰 蟽蠉纬魏蟻喂蟽畏蟼 蟿畏 渭蔚蟿维蠁蟻伪蟽畏 蟿慰蠀 螕伪尾蟻喂畏位委未畏, 畏 慰蟺慰委伪 萎蟿伪谓 魏伪位蠉蟿蔚蟻畏.
螢蔚魏委谓畏蟽伪 伪蟺蠈 蟿畏 渭蔚蟿维蠁蟻伪蟽畏, 畏 慰蟺慰委伪 魏蠀位慰蠉蟽蔚 魏伪位维 蟽蔚 纬蔚谓喂魏苇蟼 纬蟻伪渭渭苇蟼 苇蠅蟼 蠈蟿慰蠀 蟽蠀谓维谓蟿畏蟽伪 位苇尉蔚喂蟼 蟺慰蠀 未蔚谓 魏慰位位慰蠉蟽伪谓 蔚渭蠁伪谓苇蟽蟿伪蟿伪, 慰蟺蠈蟿蔚 蟽蠀谓苇蠂喂蟽伪 渭蔚 蟿慰 蟺蟻蠅蟿蠈蟿蠀蟺慰, 蟺慰蠀 未蔚谓 萎蟿伪谓 未蠉蟽魏慰位慰. 螚 苇魏未慰蟽畏 蟺慰蠀 苇蠂蠅 蔚委谓伪喂 蟿蠅谓 Gutenberg, 蔚谓蠋 蔚委蠂伪 蠅蟼 渭苇蟿蟻慰 蟽蠉纬魏蟻喂蟽畏蟼 蟿畏 渭蔚蟿维蠁蟻伪蟽畏 蟿慰蠀 螕伪尾蟻喂畏位委未畏, 畏 慰蟺慰委伪 萎蟿伪谓 魏伪位蠉蟿蔚蟻畏.
November 3, 2022
Insisto, no me gusta la poes铆a, pero cada vez que encuentro un libro como este de T. S. Eliot lo quiero en mi biblioteca.
Al igual que "La balada del viejo marinero" de Samuel Taylor Coleridge, "Las flores del mal" de Charles Baudelaire o "Una temporada en el infierno" de Arthur Rimbaud, sin entender mucho, me deleito con lo que leo.
"Te mostrar茅 lo que es el miedo en un pu帽ado de polvo", amenaza Eliot.
Y tiene raz贸n.
Al igual que "La balada del viejo marinero" de Samuel Taylor Coleridge, "Las flores del mal" de Charles Baudelaire o "Una temporada en el infierno" de Arthur Rimbaud, sin entender mucho, me deleito con lo que leo.
"Te mostrar茅 lo que es el miedo en un pu帽ado de polvo", amenaza Eliot.
Y tiene raz贸n.
May 15, 2024
噩丕蹖蹖 賴爻鬲 讴賴 乇丕亘乇鬲 賮乇丕爻鬲 卮丕毓乇 丌賲乇蹖讴丕蹖蹖 賲蹖鈥屭� 卮毓乇 賴賲丕賳 趩蹖夭蹖 丕爻鬲 讴賴 丿乇 鬲乇噩賲賴 丕夭 亘蹖賳 賲蹖鈥屫辟�.
亘丕蹖丿 亘诏賲 丿乇 鬲乇噩賲賴 卮賴亘丕夭 丕夭 丕賱蹖賵鬲 賴賲 氐丿賯 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁� 賵 鬲乇噩賲賴 卮毓乇 乇賵 丿賵爻鬲 賳丿丕卮鬲賲 丕賲丕 匕賵賯 賵 爻賱蹖賯賴 丕賱蹖賵鬲 丿乇 爻丕禺鬲 賵 倬乇丿丕禺鬲 丕蹖賳 卮毓乇 賮賵賯 丕賱毓丕丿爻鬲. 卮毓乇 爻乇夭賲蹖賳 亘蹖 丨丕氐賱 蹖丕 爻乇夭賲蹖賳 賴乇夭 毓賳賵丕賳 卮毓乇蹖 丕夭 鬲丕賲爻 丕爻鬲乇賳夭 丕賱蹖賵鬲 卮丕毓乇 賮賯蹖丿 亘乇蹖鬲丕賳蹖丕蹖蹖- 丌賲乇蹖讴丕蹖蹖鈥屫й屬� 讴賴 丿蹖丿诏丕賴 賮賱爻賮蹖鈥屫ж� 賳爻亘鬲 亘賴 賴爻鬲蹖 賵 夭賳丿诏蹖 乇賵 亘丕 卮蹖賵賴 賴丕蹖 噩丿蹖丿 卮毓乇 丿乇 丌賳 夭賲丕賳 鬲賵氐蹖賮 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁�. 丕蹖賳讴賴 丿乇 丕蹖賳 夭賳丿诏蹖 賲丿乇賳貙 丿乇 丕蹖賳 爻乇夭賲蹖賳 賴乇夭貙 賴賲賴 趩蹖夭 賮乇賵倬丕卮蹖丿賴貙 禺卮讴 卮丿賴貙 賵蹖乇丕賳 卮丿賴 賵 賲丕 丿乇 丕蹖賳 夭賳丿丕賳 鬲賳賴丕蹖蹖賲貨 趩蹖夭蹖 讴賴 丕賱蹖賵鬲 亘賴 賵丕賯毓 丿乇 夭賳丿诏蹖 卮禺氐蹖 禺賵丿卮 鬲噩乇亘賴 鈥屭┴必� 賵 丨丕氐賱 丕賵賳 夭賳丿诏蹖 噩夭 亘蹖賴賵丿诏蹖 賵 乇賳噩 賳亘賵丿.
卮毓乇 讴丕賲賱丕 爻禺鬲 禺賵丕賳賴 賵 倬乇 丕夭 丕乇噩丕毓丕鬲貨 丕夭 丕賳噩蹖賱 賵 鬲賵乇丕鬲 賵 丌蹖蹖賳 亘賵丿丕 诏乇賮鬲賴 鬲丕 丕爻丕胤蹖乇 蹖賵賳丕賳貙 賳賲丕蹖卮賳丕賲賴 賴丕蹖 卮讴爻倬蹖乇貙 丿賵夭禺 丿丕賳鬲賴貙 丕倬乇丕蹖 賳蹖亘賱賵賳诏賳 賵丕诏賳乇 賵 丕爻丕胤蹖乇 丕爻讴丕賳丿蹖賳丕賵蹖 賵 跇乇賲賳蹖 丨鬲蹖 賮丕賱 鬲丕乇賵鬲 賵 睾蹖乇賴. 賳賯丿 賵 鬲賮丕爻蹖乇 卮賴亘丕夭 禺蹖賱蹖 賲賮蹖丿 賵丕賯毓 卮丿賴 賵 丕胤賱丕毓丕鬲 禺賵亘蹖 乇賵 丿乇 丕禺鬲蹖丕乇鬲賵賳 賯乇丕乇 賲蹖鈥屫� 讴賴 亘丿賵賳 丕賵賳丕 賲鬲賵噩賴 丕賵賳 丕乇噩丕毓丕鬲 賳賲蹖鈥屫篡屫�.
亘丕蹖丿 亘诏賲 丿乇 鬲乇噩賲賴 卮賴亘丕夭 丕夭 丕賱蹖賵鬲 賴賲 氐丿賯 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁� 賵 鬲乇噩賲賴 卮毓乇 乇賵 丿賵爻鬲 賳丿丕卮鬲賲 丕賲丕 匕賵賯 賵 爻賱蹖賯賴 丕賱蹖賵鬲 丿乇 爻丕禺鬲 賵 倬乇丿丕禺鬲 丕蹖賳 卮毓乇 賮賵賯 丕賱毓丕丿爻鬲. 卮毓乇 爻乇夭賲蹖賳 亘蹖 丨丕氐賱 蹖丕 爻乇夭賲蹖賳 賴乇夭 毓賳賵丕賳 卮毓乇蹖 丕夭 鬲丕賲爻 丕爻鬲乇賳夭 丕賱蹖賵鬲 卮丕毓乇 賮賯蹖丿 亘乇蹖鬲丕賳蹖丕蹖蹖- 丌賲乇蹖讴丕蹖蹖鈥屫й屬� 讴賴 丿蹖丿诏丕賴 賮賱爻賮蹖鈥屫ж� 賳爻亘鬲 亘賴 賴爻鬲蹖 賵 夭賳丿诏蹖 乇賵 亘丕 卮蹖賵賴 賴丕蹖 噩丿蹖丿 卮毓乇 丿乇 丌賳 夭賲丕賳 鬲賵氐蹖賮 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗁�. 丕蹖賳讴賴 丿乇 丕蹖賳 夭賳丿诏蹖 賲丿乇賳貙 丿乇 丕蹖賳 爻乇夭賲蹖賳 賴乇夭貙 賴賲賴 趩蹖夭 賮乇賵倬丕卮蹖丿賴貙 禺卮讴 卮丿賴貙 賵蹖乇丕賳 卮丿賴 賵 賲丕 丿乇 丕蹖賳 夭賳丿丕賳 鬲賳賴丕蹖蹖賲貨 趩蹖夭蹖 讴賴 丕賱蹖賵鬲 亘賴 賵丕賯毓 丿乇 夭賳丿诏蹖 卮禺氐蹖 禺賵丿卮 鬲噩乇亘賴 鈥屭┴必� 賵 丨丕氐賱 丕賵賳 夭賳丿诏蹖 噩夭 亘蹖賴賵丿诏蹖 賵 乇賳噩 賳亘賵丿.
卮毓乇 讴丕賲賱丕 爻禺鬲 禺賵丕賳賴 賵 倬乇 丕夭 丕乇噩丕毓丕鬲貨 丕夭 丕賳噩蹖賱 賵 鬲賵乇丕鬲 賵 丌蹖蹖賳 亘賵丿丕 诏乇賮鬲賴 鬲丕 丕爻丕胤蹖乇 蹖賵賳丕賳貙 賳賲丕蹖卮賳丕賲賴 賴丕蹖 卮讴爻倬蹖乇貙 丿賵夭禺 丿丕賳鬲賴貙 丕倬乇丕蹖 賳蹖亘賱賵賳诏賳 賵丕诏賳乇 賵 丕爻丕胤蹖乇 丕爻讴丕賳丿蹖賳丕賵蹖 賵 跇乇賲賳蹖 丨鬲蹖 賮丕賱 鬲丕乇賵鬲 賵 睾蹖乇賴. 賳賯丿 賵 鬲賮丕爻蹖乇 卮賴亘丕夭 禺蹖賱蹖 賲賮蹖丿 賵丕賯毓 卮丿賴 賵 丕胤賱丕毓丕鬲 禺賵亘蹖 乇賵 丿乇 丕禺鬲蹖丕乇鬲賵賳 賯乇丕乇 賲蹖鈥屫� 讴賴 亘丿賵賳 丕賵賳丕 賲鬲賵噩賴 丕賵賳 丕乇噩丕毓丕鬲 賳賲蹖鈥屫篡屫�.
December 12, 2023
胤亘毓丕 兀亘賯賶 乇丕噩賱 賰丿丕亘 賱賵 賯賵賱鬲 丕賳賷 賮賴賲鬲 丨丕噩賴.
賵 賵丕囟丨 丕賳 賮賷賴 丕噩賲丕毓 毓賱賶 丕賳 賯乇丕亍丞 毓賲賱 兀卮丕丿 丕賱賰賱 亘毓馗賲鬲賴 賵 鬲兀孬賷乇賴 賮賷 丕賱卮毓乇 丕賱丕賳噩賱賷夭賷 賵 丕賱毓丕賱賲賷 夭賷 賴 賱丕夭賲 賵 囟乇賵乇賷 賷賰賵賳 亘賱睾鬲賴 丕賱兀氐賱賷丞
丕賱賰鬲丕亘 20% 賲賳賴 賲賯丿賲賴 賵 20% 丕賱賯氐賷丿丞 賵 60% 卮乇丨 丕賱賯氐賷丿丞 賵 賲毓 匕賱賰 丕賳丕 賲丨亘卮 丨丿 賷卮乇丨 賱賷 賯氐丕賷丿. 賱賵 丕賳丕 賲丨爻賷鬲賴丕卮 鬲亘賯賶 賱丕 賯氐賷丿丞 賵 賱丕 賳賷賱賴. 賱賰賳 亘賲丕 丕賳賷 賲卮 賴賯乇兀賴 亘賱睾鬲賴 兀亘丿丕 賮兀賳丕 丕丿賷鬲賴 3 賳噩賵賲 毓賱賶 賯丿 賮賴賲賷 賱亘毓囟 丕賱賲毓丕賳賷 賵 鬲賯丿賷乇賷 賱賱賲賯丿賲丞 賵 丕賱鬲乇噩賲丞 丕賱賱賷 丕鬲亘匕賱 賮賷賴賲 噩賴丿 賵丕囟丨.
賵 賵丕囟丨 丕賳 賮賷賴 丕噩賲丕毓 毓賱賶 丕賳 賯乇丕亍丞 毓賲賱 兀卮丕丿 丕賱賰賱 亘毓馗賲鬲賴 賵 鬲兀孬賷乇賴 賮賷 丕賱卮毓乇 丕賱丕賳噩賱賷夭賷 賵 丕賱毓丕賱賲賷 夭賷 賴 賱丕夭賲 賵 囟乇賵乇賷 賷賰賵賳 亘賱睾鬲賴 丕賱兀氐賱賷丞
丕賱賰鬲丕亘 20% 賲賳賴 賲賯丿賲賴 賵 20% 丕賱賯氐賷丿丞 賵 60% 卮乇丨 丕賱賯氐賷丿丞 賵 賲毓 匕賱賰 丕賳丕 賲丨亘卮 丨丿 賷卮乇丨 賱賷 賯氐丕賷丿. 賱賵 丕賳丕 賲丨爻賷鬲賴丕卮 鬲亘賯賶 賱丕 賯氐賷丿丞 賵 賱丕 賳賷賱賴. 賱賰賳 亘賲丕 丕賳賷 賲卮 賴賯乇兀賴 亘賱睾鬲賴 兀亘丿丕 賮兀賳丕 丕丿賷鬲賴 3 賳噩賵賲 毓賱賶 賯丿 賮賴賲賷 賱亘毓囟 丕賱賲毓丕賳賷 賵 鬲賯丿賷乇賷 賱賱賲賯丿賲丞 賵 丕賱鬲乇噩賲丞 丕賱賱賷 丕鬲亘匕賱 賮賷賴賲 噩賴丿 賵丕囟丨.
June 16, 2023
The Waste Land, Eliot鈥檚 masterpiece, is a poem filled with allusions and references to everything from Shakespeare to Buddha, and one that cannot be quickly read nor easily understood. It is considered one of the most important of the modernist poems, and rightfully so.
Written in 1922, in the aftermath of World War I, Eliot explores both the loss of life, its meaning, and the resultant changes in society and values. There is cynicism throughout the poem, and ultimately hope expressed in the final section鈥揳 looking back and a reaching forward.
Eliot shows us detailed examples of people lost and leading empty, meaningless lives. There is a lack of morality, a turning against the natural order, a lack of faith in the future and a discarding of the lessons of the past. The masses walk through their days with hedonistic fervor and no feeling. The Waste Land is complete, and the waste is personal.
The conclusion seems to me to say there is a way to overcome, not only endure, but thrive, however that way requires something of each individual. It requires, per Eliot, 鈥済iving鈥� 鈥渟ympathizing鈥� and 鈥渃ontrol.鈥� And, it seems to me Eliot tells us that it also requires faith; a faith in something larger than self. The result of such a faith being 鈥渋nner peace鈥�.
This is the third time I have studied this poem, and each time I feel I have grasped a tiny bit more. I would imagine that I could read this a dozen more times and not have digested it all. It took Eliot three years to write it, so it deserves the time and effort, but to know it in all its complexity, you need to read another dozen works, Dante, Shakespeare, the Bible among them. This edition contains Eliot's notes, criticisms by other prominent authors, and reference materials from Eliot's bibliography.
I believe Eliot wanted us to work for his meaning, because I think he wanted us to understand what had been lost and that it would not be an easy thing to recover.
Written in 1922, in the aftermath of World War I, Eliot explores both the loss of life, its meaning, and the resultant changes in society and values. There is cynicism throughout the poem, and ultimately hope expressed in the final section鈥揳 looking back and a reaching forward.
Eliot shows us detailed examples of people lost and leading empty, meaningless lives. There is a lack of morality, a turning against the natural order, a lack of faith in the future and a discarding of the lessons of the past. The masses walk through their days with hedonistic fervor and no feeling. The Waste Land is complete, and the waste is personal.
The conclusion seems to me to say there is a way to overcome, not only endure, but thrive, however that way requires something of each individual. It requires, per Eliot, 鈥済iving鈥� 鈥渟ympathizing鈥� and 鈥渃ontrol.鈥� And, it seems to me Eliot tells us that it also requires faith; a faith in something larger than self. The result of such a faith being 鈥渋nner peace鈥�.
This is the third time I have studied this poem, and each time I feel I have grasped a tiny bit more. I would imagine that I could read this a dozen more times and not have digested it all. It took Eliot three years to write it, so it deserves the time and effort, but to know it in all its complexity, you need to read another dozen works, Dante, Shakespeare, the Bible among them. This edition contains Eliot's notes, criticisms by other prominent authors, and reference materials from Eliot's bibliography.
I believe Eliot wanted us to work for his meaning, because I think he wanted us to understand what had been lost and that it would not be an easy thing to recover.
February 8, 2017
After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and palace and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience.
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and palace and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience.
June 6, 2022
Limerick della terra desolata che 猫 sempre nel mio cuor
(ispirati da Wendy Cope)
I
In aprile non sei mai contento
Terra arsa dal sole e spavento
Veggenti stressanti
Pendolari opprimenti
Vedo Stetson: gli pianto un lamento!
II
Lei sedeva su un trono stupendo
Scintillava, i capelli pulendo
Domandava risposte
Feci poche proposte
Tristi come Al e Lil: un tormento.
III
Il Tamigi e le ossa ed i ratti.
Sbircia T矛resia i letti disfatti
L鈥檌mpiegata coperta
Suona musica esperta
Wei la la. S鈥檌ngarbuglia da matti.
IV
Un fenicio chiamato Fleb脿s
Scord貌 uccelli e gli affari di qua
Ma senza un lamento
Facea testamento
Or lasciato nel mar marcir脿.
V
Senza l鈥檃cqua, una sete da pena
Poi diluvio, citazioni a catena.
Van dal Sanscrito a Dante,
Fino al monte Himavante,
Senza note 鈥檜n capite una sega!
(ispirati da Wendy Cope)
I
In aprile non sei mai contento
Terra arsa dal sole e spavento
Veggenti stressanti
Pendolari opprimenti
Vedo Stetson: gli pianto un lamento!
II
Lei sedeva su un trono stupendo
Scintillava, i capelli pulendo
Domandava risposte
Feci poche proposte
Tristi come Al e Lil: un tormento.
III
Il Tamigi e le ossa ed i ratti.
Sbircia T矛resia i letti disfatti
L鈥檌mpiegata coperta
Suona musica esperta
Wei la la. S鈥檌ngarbuglia da matti.
IV
Un fenicio chiamato Fleb脿s
Scord貌 uccelli e gli affari di qua
Ma senza un lamento
Facea testamento
Or lasciato nel mar marcir脿.
V
Senza l鈥檃cqua, una sete da pena
Poi diluvio, citazioni a catena.
Van dal Sanscrito a Dante,
Fino al monte Himavante,
Senza note 鈥檜n capite una sega!
March 12, 2017
蔚喂蠂伪 蟺蟻蠅蟿慰未喂伪尾伪蟽蔚喂 伪蠀蟿慰 蟿慰 蟺慰喂畏渭伪 蟽蟿伪 伪纬纬位喂魏伪 蔚魏蔚喂 蟽蟿伪 20 蟺蔚蟻喂蟺慰蠀, 蟽蟿伪 蟺蟻蠅蟿伪 蠂蟻慰谓喂伪 蟿畏蟼 蟽蠂慰位畏蟼 魏伪喂 畏 伪谓伪渭谓畏蟽畏 蟺慰蠀 渭慰蠀 蔚喂蠂蔚 伪蠁畏蟽蔚喂 畏蟿伪谓 蔚谓伪 渭蔚纬伪位慰 蔚蟻蠅蟿畏渭伪蟿喂魏慰 魏伪喂 蔚谓伪 伪蟺蔚蟻伪谓蟿慰 伪纬蠂慰蟼 纬喂伪 蟿慰 蟿喂 蟽蟿畏谓 蔚蠀蠂畏 胃伪 纬蟻伪蠄蠅 伪谓 蟺蔚蟽蔚喂 蟽蟿畏谓 蔚尉蔚蟿伪蟽蟿喂魏萎. .伪! 魏伪喂 魏伪蟿喂 纬喂伪 蟿慰谓 伪蟺蟻喂位畏 蟺慰蠀 蔚喂谓伪喂 慰 cruelest month ..蔚蟿蟽喂 蔚喂蠂伪 伪蟺慰渭谓畏渭慰谓蔚蠉蟽蔚喂 未喂伪蠁慰蟻伪 魏慰渭渭伪蟿喂伪 蟿慰蠀 sparknotes (life saver!) 魏伪喂 伪蟺位伪 畏位蟺喂味伪..蟿蠅蟻伪 10 蠂蟻慰谓喂伪 蟺蔚蟻喂蟺慰蠀 渭蔚蟿伪 蟿慰 尉伪谓伪未喂伪尾伪蟽伪, 蟽蔚 渭蔚蟿伪蠁蟻伪蟽畏 危蔚蠁蔚蟻畏 渭蔚 蟿喂蟼 蟽畏渭蔚喂蠅蟽慰蠀位蔚蟼 渭慰蠀 未喂蟺位伪(伪位位喂蠅蟼 未蔚谓 尾纬伪喂谓蔚喂 魏伪蟿伪 蟿畏谓 蟿伪蟺蔚喂谓畏 渭慰蠀 伪蟺慰蠄畏)魏伪喂 蠅 蟺慰蟽慰 渭蔚纬伪位畏 未喂伪蠁慰蟻伪 魏伪谓慰蠀谓 伪蠀蟿伪 蟿伪 10 蠂蟻慰谓喂伪? 畏 渭蔚蟿伪蠁蟻伪蟽畏? 蟿慰 纬蔚纬慰谓慰蟼 慰蟿喂 畏蟿伪谓 纬喂伪 蟿畏谓 蟺蟻慰蟽蠅蟺喂魏畏 渭慰蠀 蔚蠀蠂伪蟻喂蟽蟿畏蟽畏 魏伪喂 慰蠂喂 纬喂伪 蔚尉蔚蟿伪蟽蔚喂蟼? 慰位伪 渭伪味喂 喂蟽蠅蟼..蔚喂谓伪喂 蔚谓伪 蟺慰喂畏渭伪..蔚渭蟺蔚喂蟻喂伪.蔚喂谓伪喂 蟿慰 蟺喂慰 未蠀蟽魏慰位慰 魏蔚喂渭蔚谓慰 蟺慰蠀 蔚蠂蔚喂 纬蟻伪蠁蟿蔚喂 渭伪味喂 渭蔚 蟿慰谓 慰未蠀蟽蟽蔚伪 蟿慰蠀 韦味蠈蠀蟼 ,慰蟺蠅蟼 位蔚谓蔚 伪蠀蟿慰喂 蟺慰蠀 尉蔚蟻慰蠀谓 魏伪喂 伪尉喂味蔚喂 谓伪 蟿伪位伪喂蟺蠅蟻畏胃蔚喂蟼 纬喂伪 魏伪胃蔚 蟽蠀位位伪尾畏 蟿慰蠀..
December 26, 2022
Bookends. In February 1922, one hundred years ago, James Joyce wrote Ulysses; in December, T.S. Eliot published in America The Waste Land with notes. Both hailed in modernity. The novel would never be the same; poetry took a blind leap forward.
Unlike Ulysses that spans 750 pages, The Waste Land is a mere 432 lines. It would not even fill a 32 page book so the American publisher asked and published a version complete with notes. Why? So we can understand the poem better. The notes help but there are a lot of questions that arise.
There has been a great deal written on this book. English classes focus on this poem. I was fortunate to have heard the London Review of Books Close Readings series with Seamus Perry and Mark Ford that truly help to elucidate this poem. I read the poem twice and listened to the podcast twice. Believe me it works.
Written after the First World War while Eliot himself was on leave after suffering an emotional breakdown, you would think this was a dark poem, as the name suggests. Yes, there is talk of the dead, but it draws from numerous historical and literary references from the Aeneid, Ovid, to the Divine Comedy, Tristan and Isolde, Paradise Lost, Baudelaire, Verlaine, Spencer and even the Upanishad. It also speaks of the modern world: of men, of women, sexuality, spirituality, of loss, of hope, and in particular, of London, England. That鈥檚 a lot in such a short span. And that is it鈥檚 modernity.
From its beginning:
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
It鈥檚 middle:
To Carthage then I came
Burning burning burning burning
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
O Lord Thou pluckest
Burning
To the end:
I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the acrid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order?
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
Poi s鈥檃cose nel foco che gli affina
Quando fiam uti chelidon-O swallow swallow
Le Prince d鈥橝quitane 脿 la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo鈥檚 mad againe.
Divided in five parts, the language is what makes the poem daring for the time. The poem is dedicated to Ezra Pound, who also edited the manuscript. I found the work powerful, beautiful and poignant. Yes it was written a hundred years ago but it still fascinates and resonates today.
NOTE: I originally read this poem under 鈥淭he Waste Land and Other Stories鈥� in 1982.
Unlike Ulysses that spans 750 pages, The Waste Land is a mere 432 lines. It would not even fill a 32 page book so the American publisher asked and published a version complete with notes. Why? So we can understand the poem better. The notes help but there are a lot of questions that arise.
There has been a great deal written on this book. English classes focus on this poem. I was fortunate to have heard the London Review of Books Close Readings series with Seamus Perry and Mark Ford that truly help to elucidate this poem. I read the poem twice and listened to the podcast twice. Believe me it works.
Written after the First World War while Eliot himself was on leave after suffering an emotional breakdown, you would think this was a dark poem, as the name suggests. Yes, there is talk of the dead, but it draws from numerous historical and literary references from the Aeneid, Ovid, to the Divine Comedy, Tristan and Isolde, Paradise Lost, Baudelaire, Verlaine, Spencer and even the Upanishad. It also speaks of the modern world: of men, of women, sexuality, spirituality, of loss, of hope, and in particular, of London, England. That鈥檚 a lot in such a short span. And that is it鈥檚 modernity.
From its beginning:
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
It鈥檚 middle:
To Carthage then I came
Burning burning burning burning
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
O Lord Thou pluckest
Burning
To the end:
I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the acrid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order?
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
Poi s鈥檃cose nel foco che gli affina
Quando fiam uti chelidon-O swallow swallow
Le Prince d鈥橝quitane 脿 la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo鈥檚 mad againe.
Divided in five parts, the language is what makes the poem daring for the time. The poem is dedicated to Ezra Pound, who also edited the manuscript. I found the work powerful, beautiful and poignant. Yes it was written a hundred years ago but it still fascinates and resonates today.
NOTE: I originally read this poem under 鈥淭he Waste Land and Other Stories鈥� in 1982.
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