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The Waste Land and Other Writings
Also includes Prufrock and Other Observations, Poems (1920), and The Sacred Wood
Introduction by Mary Karr
听
First published in 1922, 鈥淭he Waste Land,鈥� T. S. Eliot鈥檚 masterpiece, is not only one of the key works of modernism but also one of the greatest poetic achievements of the twentieth century. A richly allusive pilgrimage of spiritual and psychological torment and redemption, Eliot鈥檚 poem exerted a revolutionary influence on his contemporaries, summoning forth a potent new poetic language. As Kenneth Rexroth wrote, Eliot 鈥渁rticulated the mind of an epoch in words that seemed its most natural expression.鈥� As commanding as his verse, Eliot鈥檚 criticism also transformed twentieth-century letters, and this Modern Library edition includes a selection of Eliot鈥檚 most important essays.
Introduction by Mary Karr
听
First published in 1922, 鈥淭he Waste Land,鈥� T. S. Eliot鈥檚 masterpiece, is not only one of the key works of modernism but also one of the greatest poetic achievements of the twentieth century. A richly allusive pilgrimage of spiritual and psychological torment and redemption, Eliot鈥檚 poem exerted a revolutionary influence on his contemporaries, summoning forth a potent new poetic language. As Kenneth Rexroth wrote, Eliot 鈥渁rticulated the mind of an epoch in words that seemed its most natural expression.鈥� As commanding as his verse, Eliot鈥檚 criticism also transformed twentieth-century letters, and this Modern Library edition includes a selection of Eliot鈥檚 most important essays.
272 pages, Paperback
First published January 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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Displaying 1 - 30 of 1,812 reviews
March 4, 2022
The everlasting themes: time, nature, moonlight, existence, eternity鈥�
Man, woman, relations, emotions, passion, sadness鈥� The poems are a genuine cornucopia of literary and historical allusions鈥�
Transience, mortality, brevity, futility鈥� The imagery is rich, vivid and lavishly metaphoric鈥�
Time is the only real ruler in the universe.
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
Man, woman, relations, emotions, passion, sadness鈥� The poems are a genuine cornucopia of literary and historical allusions鈥�
With 鈥業 have saved this afternoon for you鈥�;
And four wax candles in the darkened room,
Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead,
An atmosphere of Juliet鈥檚 tomb
Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid.
Transience, mortality, brevity, futility鈥� The imagery is rich, vivid and lavishly metaphoric鈥�
鈥楾hat corpse you planted last year in your garden,
鈥楬as it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
鈥極r has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
Time is the only real ruler in the universe.
February 7, 2025
Round and round the mulberry bush
The monkey chased the weasel -
The monkey thought t'was all in fun -
POP! Goes the weasel.
n 1918 the boys began their demobilization, and trickled back from the trenches. Did they get a hero鈥檚 welcome?
Not on your life!
For bitter cynicism had descended upon Europe like a ghastly pall, like 鈥渢he yellow fog鈥� which as T.S. Eliot wrote, had submerged Britain in its lacrustine depths, and then, simply 鈥渇ell asleep.鈥�
For it was the beginning of our current long sleep of reason and decency.
Nietzsche had forecasted the day correctly. It was the day of the Great Reversal - the quick and efficient Transvaluation of all Values - the advent of our Upside-Down Kingdom.
Now it鈥檚 the air that we breathe, bitter Postmodernism. There is no Hiding Place anymore. Progress has demolished and flatlined it all!
It鈥檚 like The Waste Land鈥檚 Tom Eliot described the working of his own mind in Rhapsody on a Windy Evening: his mind 鈥渂eat like a fatalistic Tom-tom (pun intended).鈥� But don鈥檛 we ALL mentally do that number on ourselves?
Well, you might say, I may have OCD, but so what? At least the world is simple and understandable... but what jeering monsters has our proud cynicism NOW begotten!
But that鈥檚 what the jeering masses did as the boys returned: turned cheers into I-told-you-so jeers. Good riddance to the hoity-toity tea & crumpets elite!
But hey, don鈥檛 throw out the baby with the bath water, guys.
Trouble is, the thoroughly educated, like Eliot and many of us, were numbered among this elite. All were being jeered. As well as his - and our - timeless intellectual treasures.
So his - and our - most cherished values started to crumble when the boys returned, and the masses turned their backs on them.
Eliot musta remembered the singsong rhyme Pop Goes the Weasel when he decried the despair of the masses' endless circular lives in their blue-collar jobs with "round and round the prickly pear!"
Jose Ortega y Gasset later described it in his epochal Revolt of the Masses, and their new ascendancy to the role of social arbiters.
Arbiters indeed, Eliot said. The Tasteless Condemnation of all Taste - literary or otherwise!
And Eliot, of course, saw it all. And he collapsed.
He was admitted to a private sanatorium on the Continent, where he started to write this chaotically long masterpiece.
Have you read it? Do you understand it? There are plenty of amazing books on it available!
In a nutshell, it鈥檚 just like U2 sings it:
I was shaking from a storm in me
Haunted by the spectres that we HAD to see
Yeah, I wanted to be the melody
Above the noise, above the hurt
For it was in a nutshell - as Oswald Spengler said it - the Decline of the West. Where we are NOW.
It was then, as many foresaw, the beginning of a Brave (Foolhardy? Precarious?) New World.
And the beginning of the end for Eliot鈥檚 upper-crust employer, Lloyd鈥檚 of London - for they are the ones who superciliously scrawled 鈥楴ervous Breakdown鈥� on his Sick Leave form.
But Eliot didn鈥檛 care.
For, as he says in the Waste Land about his breakdown:
Phlebas the Phonecian, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the (fruitless) profit and the loss...
He had seen far too much to be ever-so-politely cowed now. And guess what? When he published this one poem he was catapulted to International Celebrity status.
No more profit-and-loss balance sheets!
He was world-famous.
And a Rock Star to the kids who were starting to learn his stuff in school.
And you know what?
On the success of his books, he had secured his place in British Society - and was offered an excellent job as one of the founding editors of a fledgling new publishing house...
The prestigious Faber Limited!
For which company he became the principal Guiding Light, mentoring and publishing many of the younger British Writers who nowadays are ranked among the Great Masters of Modern Literature.
The very ones who would warn US not to be too cock-sure of ourselves as social arbiters.
Or has our cynicism forgotten that pivotal day, now that our own glory is threatened?
The monkey chased the weasel -
The monkey thought t'was all in fun -
POP! Goes the weasel.
n 1918 the boys began their demobilization, and trickled back from the trenches. Did they get a hero鈥檚 welcome?
Not on your life!
For bitter cynicism had descended upon Europe like a ghastly pall, like 鈥渢he yellow fog鈥� which as T.S. Eliot wrote, had submerged Britain in its lacrustine depths, and then, simply 鈥渇ell asleep.鈥�
For it was the beginning of our current long sleep of reason and decency.
Nietzsche had forecasted the day correctly. It was the day of the Great Reversal - the quick and efficient Transvaluation of all Values - the advent of our Upside-Down Kingdom.
Now it鈥檚 the air that we breathe, bitter Postmodernism. There is no Hiding Place anymore. Progress has demolished and flatlined it all!
It鈥檚 like The Waste Land鈥檚 Tom Eliot described the working of his own mind in Rhapsody on a Windy Evening: his mind 鈥渂eat like a fatalistic Tom-tom (pun intended).鈥� But don鈥檛 we ALL mentally do that number on ourselves?
Well, you might say, I may have OCD, but so what? At least the world is simple and understandable... but what jeering monsters has our proud cynicism NOW begotten!
But that鈥檚 what the jeering masses did as the boys returned: turned cheers into I-told-you-so jeers. Good riddance to the hoity-toity tea & crumpets elite!
But hey, don鈥檛 throw out the baby with the bath water, guys.
Trouble is, the thoroughly educated, like Eliot and many of us, were numbered among this elite. All were being jeered. As well as his - and our - timeless intellectual treasures.
So his - and our - most cherished values started to crumble when the boys returned, and the masses turned their backs on them.
Eliot musta remembered the singsong rhyme Pop Goes the Weasel when he decried the despair of the masses' endless circular lives in their blue-collar jobs with "round and round the prickly pear!"
Jose Ortega y Gasset later described it in his epochal Revolt of the Masses, and their new ascendancy to the role of social arbiters.
Arbiters indeed, Eliot said. The Tasteless Condemnation of all Taste - literary or otherwise!
And Eliot, of course, saw it all. And he collapsed.
He was admitted to a private sanatorium on the Continent, where he started to write this chaotically long masterpiece.
Have you read it? Do you understand it? There are plenty of amazing books on it available!
In a nutshell, it鈥檚 just like U2 sings it:
I was shaking from a storm in me
Haunted by the spectres that we HAD to see
Yeah, I wanted to be the melody
Above the noise, above the hurt
For it was in a nutshell - as Oswald Spengler said it - the Decline of the West. Where we are NOW.
It was then, as many foresaw, the beginning of a Brave (Foolhardy? Precarious?) New World.
And the beginning of the end for Eliot鈥檚 upper-crust employer, Lloyd鈥檚 of London - for they are the ones who superciliously scrawled 鈥楴ervous Breakdown鈥� on his Sick Leave form.
But Eliot didn鈥檛 care.
For, as he says in the Waste Land about his breakdown:
Phlebas the Phonecian, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the (fruitless) profit and the loss...
He had seen far too much to be ever-so-politely cowed now. And guess what? When he published this one poem he was catapulted to International Celebrity status.
No more profit-and-loss balance sheets!
He was world-famous.
And a Rock Star to the kids who were starting to learn his stuff in school.
And you know what?
On the success of his books, he had secured his place in British Society - and was offered an excellent job as one of the founding editors of a fledgling new publishing house...
The prestigious Faber Limited!
For which company he became the principal Guiding Light, mentoring and publishing many of the younger British Writers who nowadays are ranked among the Great Masters of Modern Literature.
The very ones who would warn US not to be too cock-sure of ourselves as social arbiters.
Or has our cynicism forgotten that pivotal day, now that our own glory is threatened?
May 1, 2021
With regular works of fiction, and possibly regular works of poetry, the reader expects to get his/her bearings with ease. Most of it feels familiar, some surprises or exotic elements are laid out here and there for enjoyment, but the way home is straightforward; go with the flow and enjoy the ride. Not so with The Waste Land (1922, the same year as ; a couple of years before ). In this cabbalistic poem, the reader is cast right into the middle of a scorching desert of rocks, a charred forest of words, reverberating multiple voices and languages 鈥� to the untrained eye, there is no way home anywhere. You have to grab your machete and carve your path into this thick bramble of verses and stanzas. Indeed, to get a sense of the poem, Eliot requires from the reader a level of effort that is almost commensurate with that of the poet himself. And so, borrowing from , Eliot calls on to him (or her), as an unreliable brother (or sister), for support: 鈥�Hypocrite lecteur, 鈥� mon semblable, 鈥� mon fr猫re!鈥� (v. 76)
Here is a possible hint, though: 鈥淪on of man, / You cannot say or guess, for you know only / A heap of broken images鈥� (20-22). Eliot鈥檚 poem refers to a crumbling world and, indeed, may itself seem like such heap of broken reflections of virtually everything, an entire library (, , , , , , , , , , , , etc.) folded and wrapped and packed and compressed into a symbolic card game, tumbled, scattered chess pieces, a ragged tapestry, an intricate and elliptical origami. It starts with the cry of the Sibyl from Petronius鈥檚 , exhausted with old age: 鈥溛€慰 洗伪谓蔚螑谓 洗苇位蠅鈥�. Soon after, we hear the young heavy-hearted sailor at the start of Wagner鈥檚 , 鈥�mein irisch Kind, / wo weilest du?鈥� (33-34). Then, again, Tristan鈥檚 shepherd, staring at an empty ocean in the last act, 鈥�脰d und leer das Meer!鈥� (42).
And on it goes, in a wild lyrical collage where all the biggest hits of European high culture are smashed, shattered, recollected, pastiched and sewn up again, into the chequered verses of a lustrous Harlequinade. There is much affinity between Eliot鈥檚 opaque and ambiguous poetry and Nietzsche鈥檚 and his critique of Western culture; or even Stravinsky, who borrowed from every musical tradition imaginable, melted them together into his crucible, and created some of the most (sometimes) strident, (always) mind-bending pieces of symphonic music.
In various places, Eliot overlays these artistic allusions with modern urban scenery to exceedingly striking effect. 鈥淎 crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, / I had not thought death had undone so many鈥� (62-63) mashes up the usual urban herd of stupefied, undead-like commuters with Dante鈥檚 vision of Hell (Canto 3, 55-57). Similarly, the evocation of the River Thames, poisoned with 鈥渆mpty bottles, sandwich papers, / Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends鈥� (177-178), echoes, with some irony, the 鈥淲eialala leia鈥� incantation, from Wagner鈥檚 (III, 1). All in all, there is a general feeling of disgust about modern life and, at the same time, a conscious effort to re-enchant, to re-poeticise, to re-mythicise 鈥� albeit with sombre, prophetic imagery that alternates between floods and droughts 鈥� a world deprived of light, warmth and mystery.
Other parts of the poem are structured like off-kilter, dark-comedy playlets. For instance, the one starting with 鈥淢y nerves are bad to-night鈥� (111) or the scene that supposedly takes place in a crummy barroom with a yakking cockney woman (139-172). These sections 鈥� which, in a way, herald 鈥檚 plays 鈥� read like snippets from everyday conversations, mingled with highbrow cultural allusions. 鈥淚 think we are in rats鈥� alley / Where the dead men lost their bones鈥� (115-116) hints at Ezekiel, 37, or perhaps at the WWI trenches... Meanwhile, the pub owner鈥檚 last call 鈥淗URRY UP PLEASE IT鈥橲 TIME鈥� is, perhaps, a parody of Brang盲ne鈥檚 warning in Tristan (II, 2): 鈥�Habet acht! / Bald entweicht die Nacht."
Modern love, however, as Eliot depicts it 鈥� under the guise of Tiresias, with his 鈥渨rinkled dugs鈥� (228) 鈥�, is nothing like Tristan und Isolde; instead, it is a loveless, nauseating hookup between a sluggish woman and a 鈥渃arbuncular鈥�, pathetic loser (220-256). Once the dude is done shooting his load, the girl concludes: 鈥淲ell now that鈥檚 done: and I鈥檓 glad it鈥檚 over鈥� (252), and mindlessly 鈥減uts a record on the gramophone鈥� (256)... or, say, checks her Insta... How much lower could Isolde still sink?
If books were celestial bodies, most would be intergalactic vacuum, some would be barren rocks, some hostile worlds, some lush planets teeming with life, some would be colourful nebulae, others burning stars, others still, dazzling supernovae. The Waste Land is a black hole of virtually infinite density. It swallows up and siphons in all languages, all pictures, all slices of ordinary life, all the books that came before it, and crushes them inside, beyond the horizon of comprehension, perhaps leading up, in the end, to a universe of pure sound, syncopated rhythms, (dis)harmony and divine thunder.
鈥淪hantih shantih shantih鈥� (433): peace which passeth understanding.
Here is a possible hint, though: 鈥淪on of man, / You cannot say or guess, for you know only / A heap of broken images鈥� (20-22). Eliot鈥檚 poem refers to a crumbling world and, indeed, may itself seem like such heap of broken reflections of virtually everything, an entire library (, , , , , , , , , , , , etc.) folded and wrapped and packed and compressed into a symbolic card game, tumbled, scattered chess pieces, a ragged tapestry, an intricate and elliptical origami. It starts with the cry of the Sibyl from Petronius鈥檚 , exhausted with old age: 鈥溛€慰 洗伪谓蔚螑谓 洗苇位蠅鈥�. Soon after, we hear the young heavy-hearted sailor at the start of Wagner鈥檚 , 鈥�mein irisch Kind, / wo weilest du?鈥� (33-34). Then, again, Tristan鈥檚 shepherd, staring at an empty ocean in the last act, 鈥�脰d und leer das Meer!鈥� (42).
And on it goes, in a wild lyrical collage where all the biggest hits of European high culture are smashed, shattered, recollected, pastiched and sewn up again, into the chequered verses of a lustrous Harlequinade. There is much affinity between Eliot鈥檚 opaque and ambiguous poetry and Nietzsche鈥檚 and his critique of Western culture; or even Stravinsky, who borrowed from every musical tradition imaginable, melted them together into his crucible, and created some of the most (sometimes) strident, (always) mind-bending pieces of symphonic music.
In various places, Eliot overlays these artistic allusions with modern urban scenery to exceedingly striking effect. 鈥淎 crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, / I had not thought death had undone so many鈥� (62-63) mashes up the usual urban herd of stupefied, undead-like commuters with Dante鈥檚 vision of Hell (Canto 3, 55-57). Similarly, the evocation of the River Thames, poisoned with 鈥渆mpty bottles, sandwich papers, / Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends鈥� (177-178), echoes, with some irony, the 鈥淲eialala leia鈥� incantation, from Wagner鈥檚 (III, 1). All in all, there is a general feeling of disgust about modern life and, at the same time, a conscious effort to re-enchant, to re-poeticise, to re-mythicise 鈥� albeit with sombre, prophetic imagery that alternates between floods and droughts 鈥� a world deprived of light, warmth and mystery.
Other parts of the poem are structured like off-kilter, dark-comedy playlets. For instance, the one starting with 鈥淢y nerves are bad to-night鈥� (111) or the scene that supposedly takes place in a crummy barroom with a yakking cockney woman (139-172). These sections 鈥� which, in a way, herald 鈥檚 plays 鈥� read like snippets from everyday conversations, mingled with highbrow cultural allusions. 鈥淚 think we are in rats鈥� alley / Where the dead men lost their bones鈥� (115-116) hints at Ezekiel, 37, or perhaps at the WWI trenches... Meanwhile, the pub owner鈥檚 last call 鈥淗URRY UP PLEASE IT鈥橲 TIME鈥� is, perhaps, a parody of Brang盲ne鈥檚 warning in Tristan (II, 2): 鈥�Habet acht! / Bald entweicht die Nacht."
Modern love, however, as Eliot depicts it 鈥� under the guise of Tiresias, with his 鈥渨rinkled dugs鈥� (228) 鈥�, is nothing like Tristan und Isolde; instead, it is a loveless, nauseating hookup between a sluggish woman and a 鈥渃arbuncular鈥�, pathetic loser (220-256). Once the dude is done shooting his load, the girl concludes: 鈥淲ell now that鈥檚 done: and I鈥檓 glad it鈥檚 over鈥� (252), and mindlessly 鈥減uts a record on the gramophone鈥� (256)... or, say, checks her Insta... How much lower could Isolde still sink?
If books were celestial bodies, most would be intergalactic vacuum, some would be barren rocks, some hostile worlds, some lush planets teeming with life, some would be colourful nebulae, others burning stars, others still, dazzling supernovae. The Waste Land is a black hole of virtually infinite density. It swallows up and siphons in all languages, all pictures, all slices of ordinary life, all the books that came before it, and crushes them inside, beyond the horizon of comprehension, perhaps leading up, in the end, to a universe of pure sound, syncopated rhythms, (dis)harmony and divine thunder.
鈥淪hantih shantih shantih鈥� (433): peace which passeth understanding.
January 11, 2008
Eliot is such a pompous old fart, how could anyone not love him? When I was still in high school if you wanted to be in the group of people who had any pretensions as 鈥榠ntellectuals鈥� or whatever else it was we had pretensions of 鈥� Eliot was de rigueur. I know large slabs of this poem by heart and when I worked as a house painter would quote it at length at the top of my voice when I ran out of Irish songs to sing while I rolled the walls 鈥� which probably misses the point of the poem, but I love how it feels in my mouth 鈥� like having your mouth full of chocolates and then coffee and then brandy, no, better, Cointreau.
There is something Romantic about this poem, despite it being the definitive Modern poem 鈥� all that stuff about, 鈥淭he chair she sat in鈥︹€� could be straight from Byron or Wordsworth.
I love the jokes, the sex in a punt and the pocket full of currants and I still love all of the horrible sexual adventures that are all 鈥榳hip it in, whip it out and wipe it鈥� for the men and so totally unsatisfying for the women. And that bit about fore-suffering all enacted on this same divan or bed with the wee typist woman and her drying combinations, is just so damn good. One final, patronising kiss and gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit.
All the same, this is one of the masterworks of the language, some of it still forms a lump in my throat as the currents rise and fall and I pass through all the stages of my youth and age.
Okay, so maybe I wouldn鈥檛 quite agree with him now that 鈥榠f you want to read me, learn my language鈥� 鈥� pretty much meaning learn the whole of European poetry to read a single poem 鈥� but very young men find this is exactly the sort of thing that draws one to Nietzsche 鈥� and Eliot was always my favourite right-wing wanker.
There is something Romantic about this poem, despite it being the definitive Modern poem 鈥� all that stuff about, 鈥淭he chair she sat in鈥︹€� could be straight from Byron or Wordsworth.
I love the jokes, the sex in a punt and the pocket full of currants and I still love all of the horrible sexual adventures that are all 鈥榳hip it in, whip it out and wipe it鈥� for the men and so totally unsatisfying for the women. And that bit about fore-suffering all enacted on this same divan or bed with the wee typist woman and her drying combinations, is just so damn good. One final, patronising kiss and gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit.
All the same, this is one of the masterworks of the language, some of it still forms a lump in my throat as the currents rise and fall and I pass through all the stages of my youth and age.
Okay, so maybe I wouldn鈥檛 quite agree with him now that 鈥榠f you want to read me, learn my language鈥� 鈥� pretty much meaning learn the whole of European poetry to read a single poem 鈥� but very young men find this is exactly the sort of thing that draws one to Nietzsche 鈥� and Eliot was always my favourite right-wing wanker.
April 24, 2020
As a poet myself, I would thank T. S. Eliot for what he did by writing the most debated and influential poem of the previous and the current (this far) century. The Waste Land had shaped an entire generation of poets, giving them the free will to explore their thoughts without any fear of being judged by the meter... expression comes to Eliot naturally and The Waste Land is just an exceptional example of that. It's still relevant, contemporary and a must-read. For those who understand Poetry, The Waste Land will never be second on the lists that they make...
October 10, 2018
I consider The Hollow Men one of the greatest poems in the English language, and certainly the greatest from the 20th century.
Here鈥檚 the start of it:
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us鈥攊f at all鈥攏ot as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
It just captures so much of the era and so much of the desolation and emptiness that followed the war; it reflects the melancholy that swept through the world. It鈥檚 a sad poem. It feels cold, detached and lonely. And I love it because it is so effective. If I was reviewing this book based on my opinion of that poem alone then this would be a five-star rating.
But, alas, I am not because there is also a poem I detest in here. I consider The Waste Land one of the worse poems in the English language because of it鈥檚 incomprehensibleness. Every time I read it I get lost. Critically speaking, it a weird and wonderful construction but it is so inaccessible. I鈥檝e read it several times over the years, and it really doesn鈥檛 get any easier.
So for me this is a very mixed bag, worth a read though!
Here鈥檚 the start of it:
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us鈥攊f at all鈥攏ot as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
It just captures so much of the era and so much of the desolation and emptiness that followed the war; it reflects the melancholy that swept through the world. It鈥檚 a sad poem. It feels cold, detached and lonely. And I love it because it is so effective. If I was reviewing this book based on my opinion of that poem alone then this would be a five-star rating.
But, alas, I am not because there is also a poem I detest in here. I consider The Waste Land one of the worse poems in the English language because of it鈥檚 incomprehensibleness. Every time I read it I get lost. Critically speaking, it a weird and wonderful construction but it is so inaccessible. I鈥檝e read it several times over the years, and it really doesn鈥檛 get any easier.
So for me this is a very mixed bag, worth a read though!
July 25, 2013
My ode to T.S. Eliot
T. S. Eliot,
You walked among the stars
In your words,
light trails blazing.
Master of the modern,
Ruler of the poetic.
There is, and was, no poet to compare.
Your mythology and legend stand immense.
Behold the waste land of the world,
Behold the glorious prose of a world shaker.
Though some have called thee,
Mighty and dreadful ,
Such slander upholds your greatness,
The potency of your reinvention.
There is a power to you - in
So behold T.S. Eliot.
A masterful poet.
One who walked among the stars
And brought the heavens a little nearer.
There is a simplicity to the greatest poetry. And at once there is a complexity. There is a simplicity, in that the greatest works of poetry don't contain wordiness or explicitly state their intentions. They strip back language to allow for a nice flow and rhythm to what they are doing. But at the same time there is a complexity generated by a presumed sense of intent and knowledge. The poet assumes that you will get, from the scarcity of language used, what they are aiming to convey. And that is part of the beauty of language, that because the poet strips everything down, there is so much which you can read into and draw as your own understanding of what the poem is about.
And that is what I sensed in The Wasteland and the other poems. The Wasteland is universally accepted as one of the most important pieces of modernism - regardless of all the arguments about it being a plagiarised piece of fiction. For an interesting breakdown on that idea of plagiarism and literature read . And no matter how you read Eliot's work: as a reinvention of older myths and narratives; as a depiction of a destroyed post-war landscape and the people affected by that world; or as a beautiful piece of art; there is so much to gain from reading this work. It really all proves that simply because older ideas are drawn upon and referenced that it doesn't have to be stealing.
Upon further reading and analysis it has come to my attention that what Eliot does in this masterpiece is to both play off the worlds of the common peasants and bourgeoise with those who would be considered academic royalty. He sets up a comparison of white collar and blue collar workers, essentially creating a poem that works like a giant chessgame. In some ways a game of oneupmanship in which Eliot tells the reader that he is better than them but still sympathetic to them. This can be seen in the classical references to high forms of literary art that Eliot draws upon. But there are also elements in which Eliot shows that he is not supercilious and in fact appears to both sympathise and empathise with the proletariat working class (the second section for instance and in lines such as "consider Phlebas" particularly seem to suggest this).
Regardless of how you want to read it I challenge you to go and read one of the great works of literature. It is a notoriously difficult poem to understand and I know I got very little of it, but it was powerful and moving. And I am now looking forward to further discussion and dissection of this in upcoming classes. Isn't the greatest power of literature apparent in how it lives on after we have read it?
February 8, 2019
The Waste Land and Other Poems, Thomas Stearns鈥� 鈥嶦liot, T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1945)
April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke鈥檚, My cousin鈥檚, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie,hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess.
鬲丕乇蹖禺 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 禺賵丕賳卮: 乇賵夭 亘蹖爻鬲 賵 賴賮鬲賲: 賲丕賴 爻倬鬲丕賲亘乇 爻丕賱 1972 賲蹖賱丕丿蹖
毓賳賵丕賳: 丿卮鬲 爻鬲乇賵賳 賵 丕卮毓丕乇 丿蹖诏乇貨 丕孬乇: 鬲賵賲丕爻 丕爻鬲乇賳夭 丕賱蹖賵鬲 (鬲蹖.丕爻. 丕賱蹖賵鬲)貨 賲鬲乇噩賲: 倬乇賵蹖夭 賱卮诏乇蹖貨 賲卮禺氐丕鬲 賳卮乇: 鬲賴乇丕賳貙 丕賳鬲卮丕乇鬲 賳蹖賱貙 亘賴丕乇 1351貙 丿乇 160 氐貨 賲賵囟賵毓: 卮毓乇 賲毓丕氐乇 噩賴丕賳 - 爻丿賴 20 賲
丿卮鬲 爻鬲乇賵賳貙 丿賮賳 賲乇丿賴
丌賵乇蹖賱 爻鬲賲诏乇鬲乇蹖賳 賲丕賴 賴丕爻鬲貨 丕夭 夭賲蹖賳 賲乇丿賴貙 诏賱賴丕蹖 蹖丕爻 賲蹖乇賵蹖丕賳丿貨 蹖丕丿 賵 賴賵爻 丿乇 賴賲 賲蹖丌賲蹖夭丿貨 亘丕 亘丕乇丕賳貙 亘賴丕乇 乇蹖卮賴 賴丕蹖 亘蹖丨丕賱 乇丕貙 亘乇賲蹖丕賳诏蹖夭丿
夭賲爻鬲丕賳 賲丕 乇丕 诏乇賲 賳诏賴 丿丕卮鬲貨 夭賲蹖賳 乇丕 丿乇 亘乇賮 賮乇丕賲賵卮蹖 倬賵卮丕賳蹖丿貨 亘丕 禺卮讴蹖丿賴 爻丕賯賴 賴丕蹖 夭蹖乇夭賲蹖賳蹖貨 夭賳丿诏蹖 賳丕趩蹖夭蹖 乇丕 倬乇賵乇丕賳蹖丿. 鬲丕亘爻鬲丕賳 亘乇 賲丕 卮亘蹖禺賵賳 夭丿貨 ... 丕. 卮乇亘蹖丕賳蹖
April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke鈥檚, My cousin鈥檚, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie,hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess.
鬲丕乇蹖禺 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 禺賵丕賳卮: 乇賵夭 亘蹖爻鬲 賵 賴賮鬲賲: 賲丕賴 爻倬鬲丕賲亘乇 爻丕賱 1972 賲蹖賱丕丿蹖
毓賳賵丕賳: 丿卮鬲 爻鬲乇賵賳 賵 丕卮毓丕乇 丿蹖诏乇貨 丕孬乇: 鬲賵賲丕爻 丕爻鬲乇賳夭 丕賱蹖賵鬲 (鬲蹖.丕爻. 丕賱蹖賵鬲)貨 賲鬲乇噩賲: 倬乇賵蹖夭 賱卮诏乇蹖貨 賲卮禺氐丕鬲 賳卮乇: 鬲賴乇丕賳貙 丕賳鬲卮丕乇鬲 賳蹖賱貙 亘賴丕乇 1351貙 丿乇 160 氐貨 賲賵囟賵毓: 卮毓乇 賲毓丕氐乇 噩賴丕賳 - 爻丿賴 20 賲
丿卮鬲 爻鬲乇賵賳貙 丿賮賳 賲乇丿賴
丌賵乇蹖賱 爻鬲賲诏乇鬲乇蹖賳 賲丕賴 賴丕爻鬲貨 丕夭 夭賲蹖賳 賲乇丿賴貙 诏賱賴丕蹖 蹖丕爻 賲蹖乇賵蹖丕賳丿貨 蹖丕丿 賵 賴賵爻 丿乇 賴賲 賲蹖丌賲蹖夭丿貨 亘丕 亘丕乇丕賳貙 亘賴丕乇 乇蹖卮賴 賴丕蹖 亘蹖丨丕賱 乇丕貙 亘乇賲蹖丕賳诏蹖夭丿
夭賲爻鬲丕賳 賲丕 乇丕 诏乇賲 賳诏賴 丿丕卮鬲貨 夭賲蹖賳 乇丕 丿乇 亘乇賮 賮乇丕賲賵卮蹖 倬賵卮丕賳蹖丿貨 亘丕 禺卮讴蹖丿賴 爻丕賯賴 賴丕蹖 夭蹖乇夭賲蹖賳蹖貨 夭賳丿诏蹖 賳丕趩蹖夭蹖 乇丕 倬乇賵乇丕賳蹖丿. 鬲丕亘爻鬲丕賳 亘乇 賲丕 卮亘蹖禺賵賳 夭丿貨 ... 丕. 卮乇亘蹖丕賳蹖
June 8, 2015
Thomas Stearns Eliot. A lot is hidden between those three words. A whole world perhaps. A depth measured by many oceans, a mystery viewed from bewitching lenses, a song marrying numerous notes, a candle thriving on inexhaustible wax.
During his writing season, that spanned over three decades, T S Eliot penned many evocative and luscious poems, with his pen always leaving a signature cryptic mark over his dotted sheets. Often a source of delusion to an enthusiastic poetic heart, his labyrinthine lyricism was like a lashing downpour on a parched heartland: one surrendered to the torrent at the risk of bearing undecipherable strokes on one鈥檚 soul. I belong to this clan.
In this volume, his celebrated and most popular poems rub shoulders with their relatively lesser known but still dense cousins. And while my soul may curse my mind for being picky about Eliot鈥檚 poems, I might go asunder for a while and share with you three gems, whose themes, narratives, cadence and wholeness can be adorned by adjectives from the 鈥榮uperlative鈥� family alone.
THE WASTE LAND
In his most celebrated poem, his thoughts, meandering through five reverberating alleys of melancholy and despair, purport to create an image that oscillates between our meretricious values and late realizations. It begins with The Burial of the Dead where a collage of pictures bearing subdued trees, stony lands, dried showers and insipid sun leaves a young girl with a heavy heart who is further introduced to the throbbing futility of it all.
GERONTION
ASH WEDNESDAY
We are always in a vicious circle of creation and destruction. This engaging activity provides momentum to our lives and reinforces our core strength.
"Shantih Shantih Shantih - The Peace that passeth understanding."
These poems are like pearls; the metaphorical oyster may pose a formidable guard but caress it with patience and stimulate it aloud and it will open up to a mesmerizing world of mellifluous prose and inspiring gist.
During his writing season, that spanned over three decades, T S Eliot penned many evocative and luscious poems, with his pen always leaving a signature cryptic mark over his dotted sheets. Often a source of delusion to an enthusiastic poetic heart, his labyrinthine lyricism was like a lashing downpour on a parched heartland: one surrendered to the torrent at the risk of bearing undecipherable strokes on one鈥檚 soul. I belong to this clan.
In this volume, his celebrated and most popular poems rub shoulders with their relatively lesser known but still dense cousins. And while my soul may curse my mind for being picky about Eliot鈥檚 poems, I might go asunder for a while and share with you three gems, whose themes, narratives, cadence and wholeness can be adorned by adjectives from the 鈥榮uperlative鈥� family alone.
THE WASTE LAND
In his most celebrated poem, his thoughts, meandering through five reverberating alleys of melancholy and despair, purport to create an image that oscillates between our meretricious values and late realizations. It begins with The Burial of the Dead where a collage of pictures bearing subdued trees, stony lands, dried showers and insipid sun leaves a young girl with a heavy heart who is further introduced to the throbbing futility of it all.
And I will show you something different from eitherLeading us to the next alleys, Eliot plays A Game of Chess, issues A Fire Sermon, condemns us to a Death by Water and lets us hear What The Thunder Said. All through this trail, we are trembling; more with remorse or excitement, is something we can鈥檛 guess without ambiguity. Touching the themes of vengeance, repentance, nostalgia, penance and decay, he halts at 鈥滵atta, Dayadhvan and Damyata鈥� as the final rousing call. This mantra in Sanskrit translates to 鈥淕ive, Sacrifice and Control鈥� respectively. This trinity, capable of resurrecting our being in a more dignified and buoyant fabric, is left for the reader to comprehend and validate.
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Datta: what have we given?------------
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment鈥檚 surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms
GERONTION
Thou hast nor youth nor ageThus starts this splendid poem, which is a mighty paean to a person鈥檚 journey from youth to mellow. And as always detected by a fatigued eye, this journey is laden with discolored beliefs and stung steps.
But as it were an after dinner sleep
Dreaming of both.
After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now-----------
History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors
And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions,
Guides us by vanities. Think now
She gives when our attention is distracted
And what she gives, gives with such supple confusions
That the giving famishes the craving. Gives too late
What鈥檚 not believed in, or is still believed,
In memory only, reconsidered passion.
ASH WEDNESDAY
We are always in a vicious circle of creation and destruction. This engaging activity provides momentum to our lives and reinforces our core strength.
I rejoice that things are as they are andA pity, then, that we can鈥檛 always control this rigmarole. What if, dotting the circle, we reach a point from where a deviation threatens to derail our movement, propelling our faith engine to go kaput? The tumultuous fall, then becomes impossible to confine in words, for it pervades everything: our skin, our bones, our heart. Should we be foolish enough to expect a hand to pull us out of this ditch, at this hour, when all we have done till now, in our sturdy capacity, is overlook meek yet expectant eyes? Is hope of such benevolence, an absurdity? Well, there is someone, indeed, to whom we can always look upto.
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice.
Will the veiled sister pray----------
For children at the gate
Who will not go away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose.
"Shantih Shantih Shantih - The Peace that passeth understanding."
These poems are like pearls; the metaphorical oyster may pose a formidable guard but caress it with patience and stimulate it aloud and it will open up to a mesmerizing world of mellifluous prose and inspiring gist.
October 16, 2014
The Unreal Wastelands & Labyrinths - What Memory Keeps and Throws Away; An Exercise in Recollection: in flashes and distortions.
____________________________
You! Hypocrite lecteur! 鈥� mon semblable, - mon fr猫re!
____________________________
Chimes follow the Fire Sermon:
A rat crept softly through the vegetation;
departed. A cold blast at the back, So rudely forc'd, like Philomela.
It was Tiresias', it was he who doomed all men,
throbbing between two lives, knowing which?
Et O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
Excuse my demotic French!
****
Let us go then, him (that carbuncular young man), and you -
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
You may come or go, but speak not
of Michelangelo.
When there is not solitude even in the Mountains,
When even the sound of water could dry your thirst,
Then you can lift your hands and sing of dead pine trees.
Have you yet been led,
through paths of insidious intent,
through every tedious argument,
To that overwhelming question?
****
Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
Sweet Thames, sweating oil and tar,
Sweet Thames, run on softly till I end my song,
for I speak not loud or long,
for I speak not clear or clean,
for I speak in the hoarse whispers of the last man,
for it was I who murdered you,
and Ganga, right under the nose, of mighty Himavant!
You who were living is now dead.
We who were living are now dying -
With a little patience!
Break The Bough, and hang yourself from it,
Sweeney, Prufrock, The Fisher King and the sterile others,
all will follow first,
like corpses etherised on well-lit tables.
****
Remember me, me - Tiresias, once more, for we are all him,
yet not.
The present will always look at the mirror,
and see only a Wasteland,
The Past is always the heavenly spring,
running dry now.
Perspective,
Thy name is Poetry.
****
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
These fragments you have shored against my ruins.
Why is it impossible to say just what I mean!
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
shantih shantih shantih
****
____________________________
You! Hypocrite reader, my likeness, my brother!
____________________________
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
October 27, 2022
协褌邪 锌芯褝屑邪 斜芯谐邪褌邪 薪邪 邪谢谢褞蟹懈懈, 芯薪邪, 泻邪泻 谢芯褋泻褍褌薪芯械 芯写械褟谢芯, 褋芯褋褌邪胁谢械薪芯 懈蟹 芯斜褉械蟹泻芯胁 褑懈褌邪褌, 懈 褋屑褘褋谢芯胁, 懈 薪邪屑械泻芯胁, 懈 写邪卸械 懈屑懈褌邪褑懈泄 蟹胁褍泻芯胁 懈蟹 芯锌械褉, 写卸邪蟹邪 懈 褉褝谐谐懈.
袙芯褌 褋锌懈褋芯泻 邪胁褌芯褉芯胁, 薪邪 褔褜懈 锌褉芯懈蟹胁械写械薪懈褟 褋写械谢邪薪褘 芯褌褋褘谢泻懈: 袚芯屑械褉, 小芯褎芯泻谢, 袩械褌褉芯薪懈泄, 袙械褉谐懈谢懈泄, 袨胁懈写懈泄, 袗胁褉械谢懈泄 袗胁谐褍褋褌懈薪, 袛邪薪褌械, 楔械泻褋锌懈褉, 小锌械薪褋械褉, 写械 袧械褉胁邪谢褜, 袣懈写, 效芯褋械褉, 袦懈写谢褌芯薪, 校褝斜褋褌械褉, 袣芯薪褉邪写, 袦懈谢褜褌芯薪, 袦邪褉胁械谢谢, 袘芯写谢械褉, 袙邪谐薪械褉, 袚芯谢写褋屑懈褌, 袚械褋褋械, 啸邪泻褋谢懈, 袙械褉谢械薪, 校懈褌屑械薪 懈 小褌芯泻械褉. 袨褔械胁懈写薪芯, 褔褌芯 褔褌芯斜褘 谢械谐泻芯 锌芯薪懈屑邪褌褜, 芯 褔褢屑 谐芯胁芯褉懈褌 邪胁褌芯褉, 薪邪屑 薪褍卸薪芯 懈蟹褍褔懈褌褜 褝褌懈 锌褉芯懈蟹胁械写械薪懈褟. 袝褋谢懈 邪薪褌懈褔薪褘械 锌械褉械胁芯写褘 懈 褉褟写 胁褋械屑懈褉薪芯 懈蟹胁械褋褌薪褘褏 邪胁褌芯褉芯胁, 褌邪泻懈褏 泻邪泻 袚械褋褋械, 啸邪泻褋谢懈, 楔械泻褋锌懈褉, 袘芯写谢械褉 懈 写褉褍谐懈械, 写芯褋褌褍锌薪褘, 褌芯 锌械褉械胁芯写褘 薪邪 褉褍褋褋泻懈泄 薪械泻芯褌芯褉褘褏 邪薪谐谢懈泄褋泻懈褏 邪胁褌芯褉芯胁 薪褍卸薪芯 械褖械 锌芯懈褋泻邪褌褜, 邪 胁芯蟹屑芯卸薪芯, 懈褏 胁芯胁褋械 薪械褌.
袝褋褌械褋褌胁械薪薪芯, 褋屑褘褋谢 褝褌芯泄 锌芯褝屑褘 芯褋褌邪谢褋褟 胁薪械 屑芯械谐芯 锌芯薪懈屑邪薪懈褟. 协褌芯 褋锌谢芯褕薪芯泄 褏邪芯褋 芯斜褉褘胁芯褔薪褘褏 褋懈屑胁芯谢芯胁 - 胁褋褌邪胁薪褘械 蟹褍斜褘, 泻褉褘褋懈薪褘械 褌褉芯锌懈薪泻懈, 褌邪斜谢械褌泻懈, 孝懈褉械褋懈泄 褋 胁褟谢芯泄 卸械薪褋泻芯泄 谐褉褍写褜褞, 薪械褌芯锌褘褉懈 褋 写械褌褋泻懈屑懈 谢懈褑邪屑懈 懈 锌褉芯褔械械, 懈 锌褉芯褔械械. 袩褉懈褕谢芯褋褜 胁芯褋锌芯谢褜蟹芯胁邪褌褜褋褟 泻芯屑屑械薪褌邪褉懈褟屑懈. 携 芯锌褍褖褍 锌芯褋褌褉芯褔薪褘械 锌芯褟褋薪械薪懈褟, 邪 褋谐褉褍锌锌懈褉褍褞 褌芯谢褜泻芯 胁褘胁芯写褘 懈 褍胁懈写械薪薪褘泄 泻芯屑屑械薪褌邪褌芯褉芯屑 褋屑褘褋谢. 袩械褉胁邪褟 褔邪褋褌褜 - "袩芯褏芯褉芯薪褘 屑械褉褌胁械褑邪". 袧械褋屑芯褌褉褟 薪邪 褎褉邪谐屑械薪褌邪褉薪芯褋褌褜 写邪卸械 锌芯褋谢械 胁褋械褏 锌芯褟褋薪械薪懈泄 - 褝褌芯 懈写械褟 褋屑械褉褌懈 袘芯谐邪 懈 械谐芯 胁芯褋泻褉械褋械薪懈褟. 袙褌芯褉邪褟 褔邪褋褌褜, 薪邪蟹胁邪薪薪邪褟 "袠谐褉芯泄 胁 楔邪褏屑邪褌褘", 褌邪泻卸械 褋锌谢芯褕褜 褋芯褋褌邪胁谢械薪薪邪褟 懈蟹 泻褍褋芯褔泻芯胁, 泻邪泻 泻邪谢械泄写芯褋泻芯锌, - 谐芯胁芯褉懈褌 芯 谢褞斜胁懈, 胁械褉薪械械 芯 褌芯屑, 褔褌芯 谢褞写懈 褉邪蟹褍褔懈谢懈褋褜 锌褉邪胁懈谢褜薪芯 谢褞斜懈褌褜. (袛邪卸械 褋邪屑 褝褌芯褌 泻芯屑屑械薪褌邪褉懈泄 写谢褟 屑械薪褟 薪械锌芯薪褟褌械薪 - 泻邪泻 谢褞斜懈褌褜 锌褉邪胁懈谢褜薪芯?). 袦械卸写褍 褌械屑, 褟 胁懈卸褍 胁 褌械泻褋褌械 褔械褌泻芯械 褍泻邪蟹邪薪懈械 薪邪 薪邪褋懈谢懈械, 胁 褌芯屑 褔懈褋谢械, 懈 褔械褉械蟹 褍锌芯屑懈薪邪薪懈械 肖懈谢芯屑械谢褘. (袧械芯斜褏芯写懈屑芯 芯褌屑械褌懈褌褜 芯谐褉芯屑薪芯械 泻芯谢懈褔械褋褌胁芯 泻芯屑屑械薪褌邪褉懈械胁, 泻邪泻 芯褌械褔械褋褌胁械薪薪褘褏 褝泻褋锌械褉褌芯胁, 褌邪泻 懈 蟹邪褉褍斜械卸薪褘褏, 褋芯芯褌胁械褌褋褌胁械薪薪芯, 斜械褋泻芯薪械褔薪芯械 泻芯谢懈褔械褋褌胁芯 胁邪褉懈邪褑懈泄 懈 褋屑褘褋谢芯胁).
孝褉械褌褜褟 褔邪褋褌褜, 薪邪蟹胁邪薪薪邪褟 "袨谐薪械薪薪邪褟 锌褉芯锌芯胁械写褜" - 褝褌芯 屑懈褉, 锌芯谐褉褟蟹褕懈泄 胁 褋褌褉邪褋褌褟褏, 泻芯褌芯褉褘泄 薪械 褋谢褘褕懈褌 袘芯谐邪. 效械褌胁械褉褌邪褟 褔邪褋褌褜 - "小屑械褉褌褜 芯褌 胁芯写褘". 袛械谢邪械褌褋褟 褋褉邪胁薪械薪懈械 胁芯写薪褘褏 屑械褌邪褎芯褉 胁褋械褏 褔械褌褘褉械褏 褔邪褋褌械泄 - 锌芯谢褍褔邪械褌褋褟 斜械蟹胁芯写懈械/斜械蟹写褍褏芯胁薪芯褋褌褜, 蟹邪谐褉褟蟹薪械薪懈械 胁芯写褘/谐褉械褏芯胁薪芯褋褌褜 褋褌褉邪褋褌械泄, 褋屑械褉褌褜 芯褌 胁芯写褘/褋屑械褉褌褜 芯褌 斜械蟹写褍褏芯胁薪芯褋褌懈. 袣邪泻-褌芯 褌邪泻.
袣芯薪械褔薪芯, 褌械, 泻褌芯 褉邪蟹芯斜褉邪谢褋褟 胁 褝褌芯泄 蟹邪谐邪写泻械 褋邪屑芯褋褌芯褟褌械谢褜薪芯, 薪械 锌褉懈斜械谐邪褟 泻 泻芯屑屑械薪褌邪褉懈褟屑, 蟹邪 褋褔褢褌 褋胁芯械泄 芯斜褉邪蟹芯胁邪薪薪芯褋褌懈 懈 蟹薪邪薪懈褟 邪薪谐谢懈泄褋泻芯泄 懈 邪薪褌懈褔薪芯泄 谢懈褌械褉邪褌褍褉褘, 斜褍写褍褌 褔褍胁褋褌胁芯胁邪褌褜 褉邪写芯褋褌褜, 褔褍胁褋褌胁芯 锌褉械胁芯褋褏芯写褋褌胁邪 薪邪写 屑械薪械械 芯斜褉邪蟹芯胁邪薪薪褘屑懈 褔懈褌邪褌械谢褟屑懈, 褔褌芯 芯薪懈, 泻邪泻 楔械褉谢芯泻 啸芯谢屑褋, 懈蟹 屑械谢褜褔邪泄褕懈褏 泻邪谢械泄写芯褋泻芯锌懈褔械褋泻芯泄 写械褌邪谢械泄, 写械写褍泻褌懈胁薪褘屑 褋锌芯褋芯斜芯屑 胁芯褋锌褉芯懈蟹胁械谢懈 褋锌褉褟褌邪薪薪褘泄 谐谢褍斜芯泻懈泄 褋屑褘褋谢. 袦薪械 褝褌芯 薪邪锌芯屑懈薪邪械褌 蟹邪谐邪写泻褍 "小芯褋褌邪胁褜 懈蟹 泻邪褉褌懈薪芯泻 锌褉械写谢芯卸械薪懈械". 袛芯锌褍褋泻邪褞, 褔褌芯 懈 褔褍胁褋褌胁芯 褍写芯胁谢械褌胁芯褉械薪懈褟 褍 褉邪蟹芯斜褉邪胁褕懈褏褋褟 褋邪屑芯褋褌芯褟褌械谢褜薪芯 锌褉懈屑械褉薪芯 褌邪泻芯械 卸械, 泻邪泻 褍 褔械谢芯胁械泻邪, 褋芯斜褉邪胁褕械谐芯 褋谢芯卸薪械泄褕懈泄 锌邪蟹谢.
袧械 斜褍写褍褔懈 斜芯谢褜褕懈屑 锌褉懈胁械褉卸械薪褑械屑 屑芯写械褉薪懈蟹屑邪, 写谢褟 屑械薪褟 胁 谢懈褌械褉邪褌褍褉械 胁邪卸薪芯 褋芯写械褉卸邪薪懈械, 邪 薪械 褎芯褉屑邪, 写谢褟 屑械薪褟 胁邪卸薪褘 懈写械懈. 携 褋褌邪胁谢褞 4 斜邪谢谢邪 褌芯谢褜泻芯 蟹邪 褌芯, 褔褌芯 协谢懈芯褌 褋褔懈褌邪械褌褋褟 芯褌褑芯屑 屑芯写械褉薪懈蟹屑邪, 懈 胁褋械 胁芯褋褌芯褉谐邪褞褌褋褟 懈屑械薪薪芯 褝褌懈屑 褌械泻褋褌芯屑, 薪芯 褔械褋褌薪芯 - 褝褌芯 薪械 褌芯, 褔褌芯 屑薪械 薪褉邪胁懈褌褋褟, 褏芯褌褟 锌芯褋谢械 写械褌邪谢褜薪芯谐芯 褉邪蟹斜芯褉邪, 薪邪泻芯薪械褑 褋褌邪谢 锌芯薪褟褌械薪 胁褘褋芯泻懈泄 懈 斜谢邪谐芯褉芯写薪褘泄 褋屑褘褋谢, 褔褌芯 斜械蟹写褍褏芯胁薪芯械 褔械谢芯胁械褔械褋褌胁芯 卸写褢褌 褋屑械褉褌褜.
袙芯褌 褋锌懈褋芯泻 邪胁褌芯褉芯胁, 薪邪 褔褜懈 锌褉芯懈蟹胁械写械薪懈褟 褋写械谢邪薪褘 芯褌褋褘谢泻懈: 袚芯屑械褉, 小芯褎芯泻谢, 袩械褌褉芯薪懈泄, 袙械褉谐懈谢懈泄, 袨胁懈写懈泄, 袗胁褉械谢懈泄 袗胁谐褍褋褌懈薪, 袛邪薪褌械, 楔械泻褋锌懈褉, 小锌械薪褋械褉, 写械 袧械褉胁邪谢褜, 袣懈写, 效芯褋械褉, 袦懈写谢褌芯薪, 校褝斜褋褌械褉, 袣芯薪褉邪写, 袦懈谢褜褌芯薪, 袦邪褉胁械谢谢, 袘芯写谢械褉, 袙邪谐薪械褉, 袚芯谢写褋屑懈褌, 袚械褋褋械, 啸邪泻褋谢懈, 袙械褉谢械薪, 校懈褌屑械薪 懈 小褌芯泻械褉. 袨褔械胁懈写薪芯, 褔褌芯 褔褌芯斜褘 谢械谐泻芯 锌芯薪懈屑邪褌褜, 芯 褔褢屑 谐芯胁芯褉懈褌 邪胁褌芯褉, 薪邪屑 薪褍卸薪芯 懈蟹褍褔懈褌褜 褝褌懈 锌褉芯懈蟹胁械写械薪懈褟. 袝褋谢懈 邪薪褌懈褔薪褘械 锌械褉械胁芯写褘 懈 褉褟写 胁褋械屑懈褉薪芯 懈蟹胁械褋褌薪褘褏 邪胁褌芯褉芯胁, 褌邪泻懈褏 泻邪泻 袚械褋褋械, 啸邪泻褋谢懈, 楔械泻褋锌懈褉, 袘芯写谢械褉 懈 写褉褍谐懈械, 写芯褋褌褍锌薪褘, 褌芯 锌械褉械胁芯写褘 薪邪 褉褍褋褋泻懈泄 薪械泻芯褌芯褉褘褏 邪薪谐谢懈泄褋泻懈褏 邪胁褌芯褉芯胁 薪褍卸薪芯 械褖械 锌芯懈褋泻邪褌褜, 邪 胁芯蟹屑芯卸薪芯, 懈褏 胁芯胁褋械 薪械褌.
袝褋褌械褋褌胁械薪薪芯, 褋屑褘褋谢 褝褌芯泄 锌芯褝屑褘 芯褋褌邪谢褋褟 胁薪械 屑芯械谐芯 锌芯薪懈屑邪薪懈褟. 协褌芯 褋锌谢芯褕薪芯泄 褏邪芯褋 芯斜褉褘胁芯褔薪褘褏 褋懈屑胁芯谢芯胁 - 胁褋褌邪胁薪褘械 蟹褍斜褘, 泻褉褘褋懈薪褘械 褌褉芯锌懈薪泻懈, 褌邪斜谢械褌泻懈, 孝懈褉械褋懈泄 褋 胁褟谢芯泄 卸械薪褋泻芯泄 谐褉褍写褜褞, 薪械褌芯锌褘褉懈 褋 写械褌褋泻懈屑懈 谢懈褑邪屑懈 懈 锌褉芯褔械械, 懈 锌褉芯褔械械. 袩褉懈褕谢芯褋褜 胁芯褋锌芯谢褜蟹芯胁邪褌褜褋褟 泻芯屑屑械薪褌邪褉懈褟屑懈. 携 芯锌褍褖褍 锌芯褋褌褉芯褔薪褘械 锌芯褟褋薪械薪懈褟, 邪 褋谐褉褍锌锌懈褉褍褞 褌芯谢褜泻芯 胁褘胁芯写褘 懈 褍胁懈写械薪薪褘泄 泻芯屑屑械薪褌邪褌芯褉芯屑 褋屑褘褋谢. 袩械褉胁邪褟 褔邪褋褌褜 - "袩芯褏芯褉芯薪褘 屑械褉褌胁械褑邪". 袧械褋屑芯褌褉褟 薪邪 褎褉邪谐屑械薪褌邪褉薪芯褋褌褜 写邪卸械 锌芯褋谢械 胁褋械褏 锌芯褟褋薪械薪懈泄 - 褝褌芯 懈写械褟 褋屑械褉褌懈 袘芯谐邪 懈 械谐芯 胁芯褋泻褉械褋械薪懈褟. 袙褌芯褉邪褟 褔邪褋褌褜, 薪邪蟹胁邪薪薪邪褟 "袠谐褉芯泄 胁 楔邪褏屑邪褌褘", 褌邪泻卸械 褋锌谢芯褕褜 褋芯褋褌邪胁谢械薪薪邪褟 懈蟹 泻褍褋芯褔泻芯胁, 泻邪泻 泻邪谢械泄写芯褋泻芯锌, - 谐芯胁芯褉懈褌 芯 谢褞斜胁懈, 胁械褉薪械械 芯 褌芯屑, 褔褌芯 谢褞写懈 褉邪蟹褍褔懈谢懈褋褜 锌褉邪胁懈谢褜薪芯 谢褞斜懈褌褜. (袛邪卸械 褋邪屑 褝褌芯褌 泻芯屑屑械薪褌邪褉懈泄 写谢褟 屑械薪褟 薪械锌芯薪褟褌械薪 - 泻邪泻 谢褞斜懈褌褜 锌褉邪胁懈谢褜薪芯?). 袦械卸写褍 褌械屑, 褟 胁懈卸褍 胁 褌械泻褋褌械 褔械褌泻芯械 褍泻邪蟹邪薪懈械 薪邪 薪邪褋懈谢懈械, 胁 褌芯屑 褔懈褋谢械, 懈 褔械褉械蟹 褍锌芯屑懈薪邪薪懈械 肖懈谢芯屑械谢褘. (袧械芯斜褏芯写懈屑芯 芯褌屑械褌懈褌褜 芯谐褉芯屑薪芯械 泻芯谢懈褔械褋褌胁芯 泻芯屑屑械薪褌邪褉懈械胁, 泻邪泻 芯褌械褔械褋褌胁械薪薪褘褏 褝泻褋锌械褉褌芯胁, 褌邪泻 懈 蟹邪褉褍斜械卸薪褘褏, 褋芯芯褌胁械褌褋褌胁械薪薪芯, 斜械褋泻芯薪械褔薪芯械 泻芯谢懈褔械褋褌胁芯 胁邪褉懈邪褑懈泄 懈 褋屑褘褋谢芯胁).
孝褉械褌褜褟 褔邪褋褌褜, 薪邪蟹胁邪薪薪邪褟 "袨谐薪械薪薪邪褟 锌褉芯锌芯胁械写褜" - 褝褌芯 屑懈褉, 锌芯谐褉褟蟹褕懈泄 胁 褋褌褉邪褋褌褟褏, 泻芯褌芯褉褘泄 薪械 褋谢褘褕懈褌 袘芯谐邪. 效械褌胁械褉褌邪褟 褔邪褋褌褜 - "小屑械褉褌褜 芯褌 胁芯写褘". 袛械谢邪械褌褋褟 褋褉邪胁薪械薪懈械 胁芯写薪褘褏 屑械褌邪褎芯褉 胁褋械褏 褔械褌褘褉械褏 褔邪褋褌械泄 - 锌芯谢褍褔邪械褌褋褟 斜械蟹胁芯写懈械/斜械蟹写褍褏芯胁薪芯褋褌褜, 蟹邪谐褉褟蟹薪械薪懈械 胁芯写褘/谐褉械褏芯胁薪芯褋褌褜 褋褌褉邪褋褌械泄, 褋屑械褉褌褜 芯褌 胁芯写褘/褋屑械褉褌褜 芯褌 斜械蟹写褍褏芯胁薪芯褋褌懈. 袣邪泻-褌芯 褌邪泻.
袣芯薪械褔薪芯, 褌械, 泻褌芯 褉邪蟹芯斜褉邪谢褋褟 胁 褝褌芯泄 蟹邪谐邪写泻械 褋邪屑芯褋褌芯褟褌械谢褜薪芯, 薪械 锌褉懈斜械谐邪褟 泻 泻芯屑屑械薪褌邪褉懈褟屑, 蟹邪 褋褔褢褌 褋胁芯械泄 芯斜褉邪蟹芯胁邪薪薪芯褋褌懈 懈 蟹薪邪薪懈褟 邪薪谐谢懈泄褋泻芯泄 懈 邪薪褌懈褔薪芯泄 谢懈褌械褉邪褌褍褉褘, 斜褍写褍褌 褔褍胁褋褌胁芯胁邪褌褜 褉邪写芯褋褌褜, 褔褍胁褋褌胁芯 锌褉械胁芯褋褏芯写褋褌胁邪 薪邪写 屑械薪械械 芯斜褉邪蟹芯胁邪薪薪褘屑懈 褔懈褌邪褌械谢褟屑懈, 褔褌芯 芯薪懈, 泻邪泻 楔械褉谢芯泻 啸芯谢屑褋, 懈蟹 屑械谢褜褔邪泄褕懈褏 泻邪谢械泄写芯褋泻芯锌懈褔械褋泻芯泄 写械褌邪谢械泄, 写械写褍泻褌懈胁薪褘屑 褋锌芯褋芯斜芯屑 胁芯褋锌褉芯懈蟹胁械谢懈 褋锌褉褟褌邪薪薪褘泄 谐谢褍斜芯泻懈泄 褋屑褘褋谢. 袦薪械 褝褌芯 薪邪锌芯屑懈薪邪械褌 蟹邪谐邪写泻褍 "小芯褋褌邪胁褜 懈蟹 泻邪褉褌懈薪芯泻 锌褉械写谢芯卸械薪懈械". 袛芯锌褍褋泻邪褞, 褔褌芯 懈 褔褍胁褋褌胁芯 褍写芯胁谢械褌胁芯褉械薪懈褟 褍 褉邪蟹芯斜褉邪胁褕懈褏褋褟 褋邪屑芯褋褌芯褟褌械谢褜薪芯 锌褉懈屑械褉薪芯 褌邪泻芯械 卸械, 泻邪泻 褍 褔械谢芯胁械泻邪, 褋芯斜褉邪胁褕械谐芯 褋谢芯卸薪械泄褕懈泄 锌邪蟹谢.
袧械 斜褍写褍褔懈 斜芯谢褜褕懈屑 锌褉懈胁械褉卸械薪褑械屑 屑芯写械褉薪懈蟹屑邪, 写谢褟 屑械薪褟 胁 谢懈褌械褉邪褌褍褉械 胁邪卸薪芯 褋芯写械褉卸邪薪懈械, 邪 薪械 褎芯褉屑邪, 写谢褟 屑械薪褟 胁邪卸薪褘 懈写械懈. 携 褋褌邪胁谢褞 4 斜邪谢谢邪 褌芯谢褜泻芯 蟹邪 褌芯, 褔褌芯 协谢懈芯褌 褋褔懈褌邪械褌褋褟 芯褌褑芯屑 屑芯写械褉薪懈蟹屑邪, 懈 胁褋械 胁芯褋褌芯褉谐邪褞褌褋褟 懈屑械薪薪芯 褝褌懈屑 褌械泻褋褌芯屑, 薪芯 褔械褋褌薪芯 - 褝褌芯 薪械 褌芯, 褔褌芯 屑薪械 薪褉邪胁懈褌褋褟, 褏芯褌褟 锌芯褋谢械 写械褌邪谢褜薪芯谐芯 褉邪蟹斜芯褉邪, 薪邪泻芯薪械褑 褋褌邪谢 锌芯薪褟褌械薪 胁褘褋芯泻懈泄 懈 斜谢邪谐芯褉芯写薪褘泄 褋屑褘褋谢, 褔褌芯 斜械蟹写褍褏芯胁薪芯械 褔械谢芯胁械褔械褋褌胁芯 卸写褢褌 褋屑械褉褌褜.
August 26, 2024
Rare to read a poem these days that makes me read it again immediately, followed by 10-15 more readings over the span of 24 hours. And I鈥檓 not even talking about The Waste Land. Yes, we all know The Waste Land is great, but it wouldn鈥檛 even land in my top 3 of this specific Faber and Faber edition. What hit me harder? Ash-Wednesday hit me harder. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock hit me harder. And of course, the cream of the crop, Journey of the Magi.
I keep on reading it. I cannot stop reading it. I also have an audiobook version of a slightly different edition of this same collection (this one including Portrait of a Lady and The Hollow Men), narrated by one of my favourites, Edoardo Ballerini. I keep listening to it too.
鈥楢 cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.鈥�
I know it immediately and viscerally.
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and
women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.
What has passed before, now seen through a lens of longing and bitterness, perhaps. Exacerbated by the toils of a new atmosphere, second-guessing previously sound decisions, reliving it all in your mind, pushing on, continuing to move regardless.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley.
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation:
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the
darkness,
And three times on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the
lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.
You reach it. You have swapped the Sand for the Wet, and the combination is now alive within you, this Wet Sand. There was a vaguely defined goal, you had an ultimate, divine, godly destination. You bore gifts and trust. And here is the kicker:
All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We have evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and
death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
I wish I could only read this poem as a Wise Man, as one of my great grandfathers. Alas, my reading is all too personal.
I keep on reading it. I cannot stop reading it. I also have an audiobook version of a slightly different edition of this same collection (this one including Portrait of a Lady and The Hollow Men), narrated by one of my favourites, Edoardo Ballerini. I keep listening to it too.
鈥楢 cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.鈥�
I know it immediately and viscerally.
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and
women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.
What has passed before, now seen through a lens of longing and bitterness, perhaps. Exacerbated by the toils of a new atmosphere, second-guessing previously sound decisions, reliving it all in your mind, pushing on, continuing to move regardless.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley.
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation:
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the
darkness,
And three times on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the
lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.
You reach it. You have swapped the Sand for the Wet, and the combination is now alive within you, this Wet Sand. There was a vaguely defined goal, you had an ultimate, divine, godly destination. You bore gifts and trust. And here is the kicker:
All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We have evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and
death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
I wish I could only read this poem as a Wise Man, as one of my great grandfathers. Alas, my reading is all too personal.
December 31, 2016
The first three published poetic volumes of T.S. Eliot career were a sudden surprise upon the literary community, but it was the third that became a centerpiece of modernist poetry. Published within a 5 year period during which not only Eliot鈥檚 style was refined but also influenced by his personal life and health. Throughout the rest of his career, Eliot would build upon and around these works that would eventually lead to the Noble Prize in Literature and a prominent place in today鈥檚 literature classes.
While I am right now in no way ready to critique Eliot鈥檚 work, I will do so in the volume it was presented in. While the publishers and editors wanted to present Eliot鈥檚 work with his personal Notes or footnotes in the back of the book to preserve the author鈥檚 intention of presentation, over the course of reading the exercise of going from the front of the book to the back to understand the footnotes became tiresome. And while reading 鈥淭he Waste Land鈥� I had three places marked in my book so as to read the poem and then look at Eliot鈥檚 own Notes and the publisher鈥檚 footnotes, which quickly became a trial.
This is a book I鈥檓 going to have to re-read over and over again for years to come to truly appreciate Eliot鈥檚 work. If you鈥檙e a better rounded literary individual than I am then this volume will probably be for you as it presents Eliot鈥檚 work in the forefront with no intruding footnotes at the bottom of the page; however if you are a reader like myself who wants to enjoy Eliot but needs the help of footnotes I suggest getting another volume in which footnotes are closer to the text they amply.
While I am right now in no way ready to critique Eliot鈥檚 work, I will do so in the volume it was presented in. While the publishers and editors wanted to present Eliot鈥檚 work with his personal Notes or footnotes in the back of the book to preserve the author鈥檚 intention of presentation, over the course of reading the exercise of going from the front of the book to the back to understand the footnotes became tiresome. And while reading 鈥淭he Waste Land鈥� I had three places marked in my book so as to read the poem and then look at Eliot鈥檚 own Notes and the publisher鈥檚 footnotes, which quickly became a trial.
This is a book I鈥檓 going to have to re-read over and over again for years to come to truly appreciate Eliot鈥檚 work. If you鈥檙e a better rounded literary individual than I am then this volume will probably be for you as it presents Eliot鈥檚 work in the forefront with no intruding footnotes at the bottom of the page; however if you are a reader like myself who wants to enjoy Eliot but needs the help of footnotes I suggest getting another volume in which footnotes are closer to the text they amply.
June 13, 2016
Hey, three stars from me for poetry is good! Why? Because I don't like the stuff. Yep, I'm a savage heathen.
I LOVED the stuff as a teen. I wrote notebooks filled with poetry (or at least something like poetry) back then. Somewhere along the line I lost my taste for it and now I can barely stand it.
Enter T.S. Eliot and his highly vaunted "The Waste Land". In some distant past, when I was in college or maybe it was even high school, I was told by teachers just how good this poem was. I don't remember any of them explaining why. We never read it in class, although it is fairly short. I don't even recall being assigned the poem to read on my own. So I didn't.
However, not having read something that "everyone else" has read really bothers me. The title floats about in my subconscious mind, occasionally whispering to me, "What, War and Peace? That book you haven't read yet, but everyone else has? Yes, that's still sitting unread on the shelf in the other room...just a few feet away. I hear it's good! But it's more of a book for real readers..." My brain is a dick. But it does get me off my ass, and so I finally recently read The Waste Land and Other Poems, not to mention War and Peace.
Once upon a time schools taught children...I was going to go on, but no, that sums it up. Once upon a time schools taught children. They were made to learn Greek and Latin. They knew the classics. And some of them later became writers themselves and they wrote poems like those found in this book, filled with references lost on ill-educated clods like myself. One day when I grow up I'm going to learn how to understand "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" and "Sweeney Among the Nightingales". But this is not that day!
No, these days I must be satisfied with remaining mired in my miserable ignorance, pleased to comprehend a mere portion of these poems. I am at least thankful to have grasped, and even enjoyed, parts of "The Waste Land" and others. To be honest, I wished I hadn't understood some of these, because they were stomach-churning. Sing-songy purple poetry (Is that a phrase? It is now!), whose titles I'll refrain from mentioning so as not to sour anyone's favorites, made me gag, cringe and convulse. Yes, it's better than anything I've ever written, but that doesn't improve it any in my mind.
This is not for me. That rating includes three very subjective stars. It's merely my opinion, part of which takes into account my enjoyment level while reading. That pool was barely half-full.
I LOVED the stuff as a teen. I wrote notebooks filled with poetry (or at least something like poetry) back then. Somewhere along the line I lost my taste for it and now I can barely stand it.
Enter T.S. Eliot and his highly vaunted "The Waste Land". In some distant past, when I was in college or maybe it was even high school, I was told by teachers just how good this poem was. I don't remember any of them explaining why. We never read it in class, although it is fairly short. I don't even recall being assigned the poem to read on my own. So I didn't.
However, not having read something that "everyone else" has read really bothers me. The title floats about in my subconscious mind, occasionally whispering to me, "What, War and Peace? That book you haven't read yet, but everyone else has? Yes, that's still sitting unread on the shelf in the other room...just a few feet away. I hear it's good! But it's more of a book for real readers..." My brain is a dick. But it does get me off my ass, and so I finally recently read The Waste Land and Other Poems, not to mention War and Peace.
Once upon a time schools taught children...I was going to go on, but no, that sums it up. Once upon a time schools taught children. They were made to learn Greek and Latin. They knew the classics. And some of them later became writers themselves and they wrote poems like those found in this book, filled with references lost on ill-educated clods like myself. One day when I grow up I'm going to learn how to understand "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" and "Sweeney Among the Nightingales". But this is not that day!
No, these days I must be satisfied with remaining mired in my miserable ignorance, pleased to comprehend a mere portion of these poems. I am at least thankful to have grasped, and even enjoyed, parts of "The Waste Land" and others. To be honest, I wished I hadn't understood some of these, because they were stomach-churning. Sing-songy purple poetry (Is that a phrase? It is now!), whose titles I'll refrain from mentioning so as not to sour anyone's favorites, made me gag, cringe and convulse. Yes, it's better than anything I've ever written, but that doesn't improve it any in my mind.
This is not for me. That rating includes three very subjective stars. It's merely my opinion, part of which takes into account my enjoyment level while reading. That pool was barely half-full.
May 28, 2014
This is one of my favorite books of all time and to prove it, I named my dog Prufrock.
I wanted to put a picture of him here for you SO BAD that after stoically refusing for a million years, I finally opened a Flickr account so I upload my pix on GR.
So here is a shot of the time the cutest dog ever did the cutest thing ever and I actually died.
I wanted to put a picture of him here for you SO BAD that after stoically refusing for a million years, I finally opened a Flickr account so I upload my pix on GR.
So here is a shot of the time the cutest dog ever did the cutest thing ever and I actually died.
March 7, 2016
This is probably one of the more difficult reviews for me. On one hand there is no doubt that Eliot is an absolute master, but on the other I found his poetry frustratingly inaccessible and not enjoyable to read. His immense influence on modernism is clearly evident, but his use of mythology and literary references made reading his poems feel at times as if each line was disconnected from the rest. I consider myself fairly well read in classical literature, mythology etc. but I felt as if I needed an interpreter through much of the material. Not to interpret the overall meaning of the poem, but to understand some of the individual ideas/works that were referenced. Eliot's poems would be a blast to read and study as a literature student, but for pure enjoyment they definitely miss the mark for me.
October 7, 2020
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.
The broken fingernails of dirty hands.
My people humble people who expect
Nothing.
la la
Nothing with nothing.
The broken fingernails of dirty hands.
My people humble people who expect
Nothing.
la la
January 3, 2020
I picked up this collection after reading and loving the cat poetry written by Eliot. I'm feeling a little bummed however as The Waste Land on its own didn't gel as well with me, it did with my Mum when she studied this for her English Lit A-Level!! That being said, I loved reading The Journey of the Magi, very strong imagery across the stanzas. Overall: some of this was good reading, not all of it!
January 20, 2021
The Waste Land was and is a landmark in British poetry... The world can seldom get over it soon! T. S. Eliot will be remembered as the poet who could have the audacity to disrupt the usual poetic practices and come up with something entirely new and unique and fragmented...
June 29, 2017
Probably my favourite poet. Poetry at its most incredible.
September 23, 2014
I think "The Waste Land" and the other poems in this collection ("Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," and "Gerontion," "Portrait of a Lady" and "Four Quartets") are brilliant. That said, I have to sort of hold T.S. Eliot responsible for everything I hate about modern poetry. Obviously T. Stearns isn't wholly to blame, and I think he has a genius of his own, but I think that his influence on many of his poetic successors has mostly led to a disgusting pretension in poetry, which superficially veils emotions, quotes Latin, and ranks obscurity and abstruseness above art. Yea, I'm staking the claim: T.S. Eliot is the father of the hipster movement I mean, what could be more hipster than saying that Coriolanus is the greater tragedy to Hamlet? ...Right. "Oh yes, of course Fleetwood Mac's "Rumours" was great and all, but have you heard their earlier demos, with Stevie singing in iambs, accompanying herself on the tambourine, and Lidnsay Buckingham on the zithern? Oh you haven't? It's sublime"
For a American expat working as a bank clerk in London, Eliot was perhaps the first visionary of the caffeinated Brooklyn counterculture-turned-mainstream-turned-counter-counter-culture-ad-infinitum:
One thing Eliot does master is capturing a rhythm without necessarily having a strict structure.
Talking of Michel Foucault.
For a American expat working as a bank clerk in London, Eliot was perhaps the first visionary of the caffeinated Brooklyn counterculture-turned-mainstream-turned-counter-counter-culture-ad-infinitum:
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,Yea, T. Stearns, let's traipse around Bensonhurst late at night when all the bars stop selling PBRs and take the dusty mixed-nut bowls off the counter, let's wipe the dust off of our hemp-sewn socks, and knock the much off our patent leather high-top shoes, and walk alone and look at the citylights and meditate on what it all means to be alive, and why rents are so high, and what is a good synonym for boredom (boredom - snoredom - apathy - lassitude - yawn - pococurantism (oooh that's a good one) - disinterest - l'ennui (ooh, nice use of freshman year French, man, high-five)), and why the sea is boiling hot and weather pigs have wings, etc. etc.
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
One thing Eliot does master is capturing a rhythm without necessarily having a strict structure.
Unlike many ofHe is also a master of allusion, which spans all of time, and does not belong to a signular era. He borrows from Shakespeare, from Homer, Henry James, all sorts of authors and thinkers and tinkerers, and blends them with the lowbrow culture which was pervasive in his day, and has a bold rhythm which is counter to its highbrow literary past. However, despite the highbrow-lowbrow contrast, the varied allusions form a beautiful fugue of meaning, which says something about society as a whole in a realistic way. Dovetailing off of Eliot's convergence of the high and low brow cultures in poetry, there is a kind of split between the ultra-obscurism of Wallace Stevens (whom I adore) and Hart Crane, and the self-indulgent colloquiality of Auden, Berryman, etc. While I think these are talented poets, I think they fall short of the kind of musicality of Eliot's poetry. However, I think poetry these days (which isn't to say all of it, or necessarily much of it, but rather the sort of stock-persona of poetry) is highly self-indulgent and pretentious.
his successors, Eliot's po-
-etry has a meter and rhythm of its
own,
maybe inconsistent, but lyriccal in its own
way:
not just sentences with
strange line
breaks.
Je ne peux pas mentir. Placet rithimorum.
In the room the women come and goIn Williamsburg the hipsters come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
Talking of Michel Foucault.
March 1, 2017
丕诏乇 亘賴 禺丕胤乇 賳賯胤賴 爻丕讴賳 賳亘賵丿 乇賯氐蹖 賵噩賵丿 賳丿丕卮鬲
June 17, 2021
La terra devastata 猫 il titolo della nuova traduzione di The waste land, ad opera di Carmen Gallo.
Credo che questa sia per me la quarta rilettura: ero una studentessa dell'ultimo anno del liceo quando ho letto per la prima volta il poema in inglese, con la relativa traduzione a fronte. Visto che siamo in tema di Esami di Stato, all'epoca si chiamavano ancora Esami di Maturit脿, ricordo che era uno dei poemi studiati al quinto anno. La prima volta che l'ho letto sono rimasta folgorata e questo stato d'animo mi ha accompagnata ad ogni rilettura.
Non voglio fare una comparazione delle traduzioni, perch茅 non credo che abbia senso (io ho letto la prima volta il poema, in originale con il testo a fronte, nella traduzione di Mario Praz, Einaudi Editore).
鈥淒opo la luce della torcia rossa su facce sudate
dopo il silenzio di gelo nei giardini
dopo l鈥檃gonia nei luoghi di pietra
le grida e i pianti
prigione e palazzo e riverberazione
di tuono di primavera sopra montagne distanti
colui che era vivo adesso 猫 morto
noi che eravamo vivi adesso stiamo morendo
con un po鈥� di pazienza
Qui non c鈥櫭� acqua ma solo roccia
roccia e non acqua e la strada di sabbia
la strada che si inerpica su tra le montagne
che sono montagne di roccia senza acqua
se ci fosse acqua potremmo fermarci e bere
tra le rocce non puoi fermarti o pensare
il sudore 猫 secco e i piedi stanno nella sabbia
se ci fosse solo acqua tra le rocce
morta bocca di montagna con i denti cariati che non sa sputare
qui non si pu貌 stare in piedi n茅 sdraiati n茅 seduti
non c鈥櫭� nemmeno silenzio tra le montagne
solo un tuono secco sterile senza pioggia
non c鈥櫭� nemmeno solitudine tra le montagne
solo facce rosse scontrose che ghignano e ringhiano
da porte di case di fango crepato
se ci fosse acqua
e nessuna roccia
se ci fosse roccia
e anche acqua
e acqua
e una fonte
una pozza tra le rocce
se ci fosse il suono dell鈥檃cqua soltanto
non la cicala
e il canto dell鈥檈rba secca
ma suono d鈥檃cqua sopra una roccia
dove il tordo eremita canta tra i pini
clof clop clof clop clop clop clop
ma non c鈥櫭� acqua鈥�
Molto belle le note di Carmen Gallo a chiusura del libro, a commento dei 433 versi del poema: un'immersione guidata nelle profondit脿 delle terre di Eliot, che abbraccia tutto il mondo letterario contemporaneo dell'autore.
"Damyata: La barca rispondeva
lieta, alla mano esperta con la vela e con il remo
il mare era calmo, il tuo cuore avrebbe risposto
lieto, al cenno d鈥檌nvito, battendo obbediente
alle mani che avevano il controllo
Sedetti sulla riva
a pescare, con la pianura arida dietro di me
sapr貌 almeno mettere ordine nelle mie terre?鈥�
Non 猫 questo forse l'interrogativo che guida ciascuno di noi?
Credo che questa sia per me la quarta rilettura: ero una studentessa dell'ultimo anno del liceo quando ho letto per la prima volta il poema in inglese, con la relativa traduzione a fronte. Visto che siamo in tema di Esami di Stato, all'epoca si chiamavano ancora Esami di Maturit脿, ricordo che era uno dei poemi studiati al quinto anno. La prima volta che l'ho letto sono rimasta folgorata e questo stato d'animo mi ha accompagnata ad ogni rilettura.
Non voglio fare una comparazione delle traduzioni, perch茅 non credo che abbia senso (io ho letto la prima volta il poema, in originale con il testo a fronte, nella traduzione di Mario Praz, Einaudi Editore).
鈥淒opo la luce della torcia rossa su facce sudate
dopo il silenzio di gelo nei giardini
dopo l鈥檃gonia nei luoghi di pietra
le grida e i pianti
prigione e palazzo e riverberazione
di tuono di primavera sopra montagne distanti
colui che era vivo adesso 猫 morto
noi che eravamo vivi adesso stiamo morendo
con un po鈥� di pazienza
Qui non c鈥櫭� acqua ma solo roccia
roccia e non acqua e la strada di sabbia
la strada che si inerpica su tra le montagne
che sono montagne di roccia senza acqua
se ci fosse acqua potremmo fermarci e bere
tra le rocce non puoi fermarti o pensare
il sudore 猫 secco e i piedi stanno nella sabbia
se ci fosse solo acqua tra le rocce
morta bocca di montagna con i denti cariati che non sa sputare
qui non si pu貌 stare in piedi n茅 sdraiati n茅 seduti
non c鈥櫭� nemmeno silenzio tra le montagne
solo un tuono secco sterile senza pioggia
non c鈥櫭� nemmeno solitudine tra le montagne
solo facce rosse scontrose che ghignano e ringhiano
da porte di case di fango crepato
se ci fosse acqua
e nessuna roccia
se ci fosse roccia
e anche acqua
e acqua
e una fonte
una pozza tra le rocce
se ci fosse il suono dell鈥檃cqua soltanto
non la cicala
e il canto dell鈥檈rba secca
ma suono d鈥檃cqua sopra una roccia
dove il tordo eremita canta tra i pini
clof clop clof clop clop clop clop
ma non c鈥櫭� acqua鈥�
Molto belle le note di Carmen Gallo a chiusura del libro, a commento dei 433 versi del poema: un'immersione guidata nelle profondit脿 delle terre di Eliot, che abbraccia tutto il mondo letterario contemporaneo dell'autore.
"Damyata: La barca rispondeva
lieta, alla mano esperta con la vela e con il remo
il mare era calmo, il tuo cuore avrebbe risposto
lieto, al cenno d鈥檌nvito, battendo obbediente
alle mani che avevano il controllo
Sedetti sulla riva
a pescare, con la pianura arida dietro di me
sapr貌 almeno mettere ordine nelle mie terre?鈥�
Non 猫 questo forse l'interrogativo che guida ciascuno di noi?
April 1, 2020
The broad-backed hippopotamus
Rests on his belly in the mud;
Although he seems so firm to us
He is merely flesh and blood.
Flesh and Blood is weak and frail,
Susceptible to nervous shock;
While the True Church can never fail
For it is based upon a rock.
The hippo's feeble steps may err
In compassing material ends,
While the True Church need never stir
To gather in its dividends.
The 'potamus can never reach
The mango on the mango-tree;
But fruits of pomegranate and peach
Refresh the Church from over sea.
At mating time the hippo's voice
Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
But every week we hear rejoice
The Church, at being one with God.
The hippopotamus's day
Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
God works in a mysterious way-
The Church can sleep and feed at once.
I saw the 'potamus take wing
Ascending from the damp savannas,
And quiring angels round him sing
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.
Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
Among the saints he shall be seen
Performing on a harp of gold.
He shall be washed as white as snow,
By all the martyr'd virgins kist,
While the True Church remains below
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.
T.S. Eliot, The Hippopotamus
He's no Bob Dylan, but he's okay.
Rests on his belly in the mud;
Although he seems so firm to us
He is merely flesh and blood.
Flesh and Blood is weak and frail,
Susceptible to nervous shock;
While the True Church can never fail
For it is based upon a rock.
The hippo's feeble steps may err
In compassing material ends,
While the True Church need never stir
To gather in its dividends.
The 'potamus can never reach
The mango on the mango-tree;
But fruits of pomegranate and peach
Refresh the Church from over sea.
At mating time the hippo's voice
Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
But every week we hear rejoice
The Church, at being one with God.
The hippopotamus's day
Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
God works in a mysterious way-
The Church can sleep and feed at once.
I saw the 'potamus take wing
Ascending from the damp savannas,
And quiring angels round him sing
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.
Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
Among the saints he shall be seen
Performing on a harp of gold.
He shall be washed as white as snow,
By all the martyr'd virgins kist,
While the True Church remains below
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.
T.S. Eliot, The Hippopotamus
He's no Bob Dylan, but he's okay.
December 21, 2008
I once won 50$ for reciting The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock is a coffee shop. Making this the only one of my books to pay for itself in a material way.
May 25, 2023
The Waste Land is a mesmerisingly powerful poem, a stark and bleak window into the past, present and future. It feels apt to be reading it in the 21st century, but it would still be every bit as good even without the similarities to our own future.
May 8, 2024
Although I didn鈥檛 understand most of the poems, there were many lines that left me thinking (or wishing I knew what they meant), and there were a few lines that left me awe-struck. Here are examples of the latter two (i.e., left thinking or awe-struck):
鈥淣either fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices || Are fathered by our heroism. || Virtues || Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes.鈥�
鈥淎nd I will show you something different from either || Your shadow at morning striding behind you || Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; || I will show you fear in a handful of dust.鈥�
I know that 鈥淭he Waste Land鈥� is 鈥檚 most famous poem, and is considered his masterpiece. Still, I didn鈥檛 enjoy it as much as some of his other poems, such as 鈥淕erontion鈥� and 鈥淭he Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.鈥�
鈥淚 have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, || And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, || And in short, I was afraid.鈥�
Some Other Memorable Lines:
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�
鈥淭here will be time, there will be time || To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; || There will be time to murder and create鈥�
鈥淚 should have been a pair of ragged claws || Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.鈥�
鈥淚 would meet you upon this honestly. || I that was near your heart was removed therefrom || To lose beauty in terror, terror in inquisition. || I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it || Since what is kept must be adulterated?鈥�
鈥淏ecause I know that time is always time || And place is always and only place || And what is actual is actual only for one time || And only for one place.鈥�
鈥淣either fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices || Are fathered by our heroism. || Virtues || Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes.鈥�
鈥淎nd I will show you something different from either || Your shadow at morning striding behind you || Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; || I will show you fear in a handful of dust.鈥�
I know that 鈥淭he Waste Land鈥� is 鈥檚 most famous poem, and is considered his masterpiece. Still, I didn鈥檛 enjoy it as much as some of his other poems, such as 鈥淕erontion鈥� and 鈥淭he Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.鈥�
鈥淚 have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, || And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, || And in short, I was afraid.鈥�
Some Other Memorable Lines:
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�
鈥淭here will be time, there will be time || To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; || There will be time to murder and create鈥�
鈥淚 should have been a pair of ragged claws || Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.鈥�
鈥淚 would meet you upon this honestly. || I that was near your heart was removed therefrom || To lose beauty in terror, terror in inquisition. || I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it || Since what is kept must be adulterated?鈥�
鈥淏ecause I know that time is always time || And place is always and only place || And what is actual is actual only for one time || And only for one place.鈥�
December 19, 2020
The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
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; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carv茅d dolphin swam.
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; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
鈥淛ug Jug鈥� to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
January 6, 2025
I read these poems in another edition鈥�The Collected Poems, 1909-1962鈥攂ut had to mark this one as "read" as well since it seems to be the one book by T.S. Eliot that most people have read, and I don't wanna miss out on hanging out with all the cool kids.
Since my original review of T.S. Eliot's complete poems is already long enough I decide to use this review as a blank space to give you an overview of all my reviews of his single collections. Beware! The reviews are long, I am obsessed with this man's poetry.
Prufrock and Other Observations (1917)
Poems (1920)
The Waste Land (1922)
The Hollow Men (1925)
Ash-Wednesday (1930)
Ariel Poems (1927-1954)
Unfinished Poems
Minor Poems
Choruses from 'The Rock' (1934)
Four Quartets (1935-1942)
Occasional Verses
Since my original review of T.S. Eliot's complete poems is already long enough I decide to use this review as a blank space to give you an overview of all my reviews of his single collections. Beware! The reviews are long, I am obsessed with this man's poetry.
Prufrock and Other Observations (1917)
Poems (1920)
The Waste Land (1922)
The Hollow Men (1925)
Ash-Wednesday (1930)
Ariel Poems (1927-1954)
Unfinished Poems
Minor Poems
Choruses from 'The Rock' (1934)
Four Quartets (1935-1942)
Occasional Verses
July 3, 2023
106th book of 2020.
Despite feeling a little 'book-hungover' from Swann's Way, I managed to savour the rest of Eliot's poems that are usually lumped in with 'The Waste Land', which I reviewed separately, because it is so long and intricate. My long and meandering review of that is here.
The cover of this collection is very interesting. It does beg us to consider Eliot's world, smokey, modernist, haunting, post-war, but also, littered with mundane things that we imagine Eliot himself did, reading books, the papers, drinking tea. A lot of travel happens in his poetry too, or the feeling of travel; that we are traversing this giant mental landscape (a term I more frequently use when describing Sebald's novels). In 'Journey of the Magi' - At the end we preferred to travel all night/sleeping in snatches.' The images are as haunting throughout as they are in 'The Waste Land'. We do not always understand where we are being taken by Eliot, or if we want to be taken, but all the same we are; we are drawn in by his language first, and by the time we leave, staggering, as if drunk, by the way the language has made us feel: disorientated, lost, scared. There were no more faces and the stair was dark,/Damp, jagged, like an old man's mouth drivelling,/beyond repair,/Or the toothed gullet of an aged shark.'
So in these current times with little meaning but much feeling, Eliot does lead us through smokey streets with fetid images and confusing narratives, which somehow, become cathartic, too.
Despite feeling a little 'book-hungover' from Swann's Way, I managed to savour the rest of Eliot's poems that are usually lumped in with 'The Waste Land', which I reviewed separately, because it is so long and intricate. My long and meandering review of that is here.
The cover of this collection is very interesting. It does beg us to consider Eliot's world, smokey, modernist, haunting, post-war, but also, littered with mundane things that we imagine Eliot himself did, reading books, the papers, drinking tea. A lot of travel happens in his poetry too, or the feeling of travel; that we are traversing this giant mental landscape (a term I more frequently use when describing Sebald's novels). In 'Journey of the Magi' - At the end we preferred to travel all night/sleeping in snatches.' The images are as haunting throughout as they are in 'The Waste Land'. We do not always understand where we are being taken by Eliot, or if we want to be taken, but all the same we are; we are drawn in by his language first, and by the time we leave, staggering, as if drunk, by the way the language has made us feel: disorientated, lost, scared. There were no more faces and the stair was dark,/Damp, jagged, like an old man's mouth drivelling,/beyond repair,/Or the toothed gullet of an aged shark.'
So in these current times with little meaning but much feeling, Eliot does lead us through smokey streets with fetid images and confusing narratives, which somehow, become cathartic, too.
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