艾略特荒原中英对照

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艾略特《荒原》

这山间甚至没有安静只有干打的雷而没有雨这山间甚至没有闲适只有怒得发紫的脸嘲笑和詈骂从干裂的泥土房子的门口如果有水而没有岩石如果有岩石也有水

And water A spring 350 A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock 355 Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water

那水是一条泉山石间的清潭要是只有水的声音不是知了和枯草的歌唱而是水流石上的清响还有画眉鸟隐在松林里作歌淅沥淅沥沥沥沥可是没有水

353 to 355 are an echo of lines 23 to 25.
“And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock” 25
WHAT THE THUNDER SAID -----------雷霆的话

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 325 Prison and place 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 330的面孔被火把照亮后在花园经过寒霜的死寂后在岩石间的受难后还有呐喊和哭号监狱、宫殿和春雷在远山的回音振荡以后那一度活着的如今死了我们曾活过而今却垂死多少带一点耐心

艾略特 - 荒原

T.S.Eliot(1888–1965).The Waste Land.1922.The Waste LandI.THE BURIAL OF THE DEADAPRIL is the cruellest month,breedingLilacs out of the dead land,mixingMemory and desire,stirringDull roots with spring rain.Winter kept us warm,covering5Earth in forgetful snow,feedingA 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,10And drank coffee,and talked for an hour.Bin gar keine Russin,stamm'aus Litauen,echt deutsch. And when we were children,staying at the archduke's, My cousin's,he took me out on a sled,And I was frightened.He said,Marie,15Marie,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,20You cannot say,or guess,for you know onlyA 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.OnlyThere is shadow under this red rock,25(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind youOr your shadow at evening rising to meet you;I will show you fear in a handful of dust.30Frisch weht der WindDer Heimat zu.Mein Irisch Kind,Wo weilest du?'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;35'They called me the hyacinth girl.'—Yet when we came back,late,from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full,and your hair wet,I could notSpeak,and my eyes failed,I was neitherLiving nor dead,and I knew nothing,40Looking into the heart of light,the silence.Od'und leer das Meer.Madame Sosostris,famous clairvoyante,Had a bad cold,neverthelessIs known to be the wisest woman in Europe,45With a wicked pack of cards.Here,said she,Is your card,the drowned Phoenician Sailor,(Those are pearls that were his eyes.Look!)Here is Belladonna,the Lady of the Rocks,The lady of situations.50Here is the man with three staves,and here the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant,and this card,Which is blank,is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see.I do not findThe Hanged Man.Fear death by water.55I see crowds of people,walking round in a ring.Thank you.If you see dear Mrs.Equitone,Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:One must be so careful these days.Unreal City,60Under 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.65Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hoursWith a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.There I saw one I knew,and stopped him,crying'Stetson! 'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!70'That corpse you planted last year in your garden,'Has it begun to sprout?Will it bloom this year?'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?'Oh keep the Dog far hence,that's friend to men,'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!75'You!hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!'II.A GAME OF CHESSTHE Chair she sat in,like a burnished throne, Glowed on the marble,where the glassHeld up by standards wrought with fruited vines From which a golden Cupidon peeped out80 (Another hid his eyes behind his wing)Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table asThe glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,From satin cases poured in rich profusion;85In vials of ivory and coloured glass Unstoppered,lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent,powdered,or liquid—troubled,confused And drowned the sense in odours;stirred by the air That freshened from the window,these ascended90 In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,Flung their smoke into the laquearia,Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.Huge sea-wood fed with copperBurned green and orange,framed by the coloured stone,95 In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.Above the antique mantel was displayedAs though a window gave upon the sylvan sceneThe change of Philomel,by the barbarous kingSo rudely forced;yet there the nightingale100Filled all the desert with inviolable voiceAnd still she cried,and still the world pursues,'Jug Jug'to dirty ears.And other withered stumps of timeWere told upon the walls;staring forms105Leaned out,leaning,hushing the room enclosed. Footsteps shuffled on the stair.Under the firelight,under the brush,her hairSpread out in fiery pointsGlowed into words,then would be savagely still.110'My nerves are bad to-night.Yes,bad.Stay with me.'Speak to me.Why do you never speak?Speak.'What are you thinking of?What thinking?What?'I never know what you are thinking.Think.'I think we are in rats'alley115Where the dead men lost their bones.'What is that noise?'The wind under the door.'What is that noise now?What is the wind doing?' Nothing again nothing.120'Do'You know nothing?Do you see nothing?Do you remember 'Nothing?'I rememberThose are pearls that were his eyes.125'Are you alive,or not?Is there nothing in your head?'ButO O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—It's so elegantSo intelligent130'What shall I do now?What shall I do?''I shall rush out as I am,and walk the street'With my hair down,so.What shall we do to-morrow?'What shall we ever do?'The hot water at ten.135And if it rains,a closed car at four.And we shall play a game of chess,Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.When Lil's husband got demobbed,I said—I didn't mince my words,I said to her myself,140HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIMENow Albert's coming back,make yourself a bit smart.He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave youTo get yourself some teeth.He did,I was there.You have them all out,Lil,and get a nice set,145He said,I swear,I can't bear to look at you.And no more can't I,I said,and think of poor Albert,He's been in the army four years,he wants a good time,And if you don't give it him,there's others will,I said.Oh is there,she said.Something o'that,I said.150Then I'll know who to thank,she said,and give me a straight look.HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIMEIf you don't like it you can get on with it,I said.Others can pick and choose if you can't.But if Albert makes off,it won't be for lack of telling.155 You ought to be ashamed,I said,to look so antique.(And her only thirty-one.)I can't help it,she said,pulling a long face,It's them pills I took,to bring it off,she said.(She's had five already,and nearly died of young George.) 160The chemist said it would be alright,but I've never been the same.You are a proper fool,I said.Well,if Albert won't leave you alone,there it is,I said, What you get married for if you don't want children? HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME165Well,that Sunday Albert was home,they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner,to get the beauty of it hot—HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIMEHURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIMEGoonight Bill.Goonight Lou.Goonight May.Goonight.170Ta ta.Goonight.Goonight.Good night,ladies,good night,sweet ladies,good night, good night.III.THE FIRE SERMONTHE river's tent is broken:the last fingers of leafClutch and sink into the wet bank.The windCrosses the brown land,unheard.The nymphs are departed. 175Sweet Thames,run softly,till I end my song.The river bears no empty bottles,sandwich papers,Silk handkerchiefs,cardboard boxes,cigarette endsOr other testimony of summer nights.The nymphs are departed.And their friends,the loitering heirs of city directors;180 Departed,have left no addresses.By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept...Sweet Thames,run softly till I end my song,Sweet Thames,run softly,for I speak not loud or long.But at my back in a cold blast I hear185The rattle of the bones,and chuckle spread from ear to ear.A rat crept softly through the vegetationDragging its slimy belly on the bankWhile I was fishing in the dull canalOn a winter evening round behind the gashouse190 Musing upon the king my brother's wreckAnd on the king my father's death before him.White bodies naked on the low damp groundAnd bones cast in a little low dry garret,Rattled by the rat's foot only,year to year.195But at my back from time to time I hearThe sound of horns and motors,which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs.Porter in the spring.O the moon shone bright on Mrs.PorterAnd on her daughter200They wash their feet in soda waterEt,O ces voix d'enfants,chantant dans la coupole!Twit twit twitJug jug jug jug jug jugSo rudely forc'd.205TereuUnreal CityUnder the brown fog of a winter noonMr.Eugenides,the Smyrna merchantUnshaven,with a pocket full of currants210C.i.f.London:documents at sight,Asked me in demotic FrenchTo luncheon at the Cannon Street HotelFollowed by a weekend at the Metropole.At the violet hour,when the eyes and back215Turn upward from the desk,when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting,I Tiresias,though blind,throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts,can seeAt the violet hour,the evening hour that strives220 Homeward,and brings the sailor home from sea,The typist home at teatime,clears her breakfast,lights Her stove,and lays out food in tins.Out of the window perilously spreadHer drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,225 On the divan are piled(at night her bed)Stockings,slippers,camisoles,and stays.I Tiresias,old man with wrinkled dugsPerceived the scene,and foretold the rest—I too awaited the expected guest.230He,the young man carbuncular,arrives,A small house agent's clerk,with one bold stare,One of the low on whom assurance sitsAs a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.The time is now propitious,as he guesses,235The meal is ended,she is bored and tired,Endeavours to engage her in caressesWhich still are unreproved,if undesired.Flushed and decided,he assaults at once;Exploring hands encounter no defence;240His vanity requires no response,And makes a welcome of indifference.(And I Tiresias have foresuffered allEnacted on this same divan or bed;I who have sat by Thebes below the wall245 And walked among the lowest of the dead.) Bestows on final patronising kiss,And gropes his way,finding the stairs unlit...She turns and looks a moment in the glass, Hardly aware of her departed lover;250Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: 'Well now that's done:and I'm glad it's over.' When lovely woman stoops to folly andPaces about her room again,alone,She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,255 And puts a record on the gramophone.'This music crept by me upon the waters'And along the Strand,up Queen Victoria Street. O City city,I can sometimes hearBeside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,260 The pleasant whining of a mandolineAnd a clatter and a chatter from withinWhere fishmen lounge at noon:where the wallsOf Magnus Martyr holdInexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.265The river sweatsOil and tarThe barges driftWith the turning tideRed sails270WideTo leeward,swing on the heavy spar.The barges washDrifting logsDown Greenwich reach275Past the Isle of Dogs.Weialala leiaWallala leialalaElizabeth and LeicesterBeating oars280The stern was formedA gilded shellRed and goldThe brisk swellRippled both shores285Southwest windCarried down streamThe peal of bellsWhite towersWeialala leia290Wallala leialala'Trams and dusty trees.Highbury bore me.Richmond and Kew Undid me.By Richmond I raised my knees Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.'295 'My feet are at Moorgate,and my heart Under my feet.After the eventHe wept.He promised"a new start".I made no comment.What should I resent?' 'On Margate Sands.300I can connectNothing with nothing.The broken fingernails of dirty hands.My people humble people who expect Nothing.'305la laTo Carthage then I cameBurning burning burning burningO Lord Thou pluckest me outO Lord Thou pluckest310burningIV.DEATH BY WATERPHLEBAS the Phoenician,a fortnight dead, Forgot the cry of gulls,and the deep seas swell And the profit and loss.A current under sea315Picked his bones in whispers.As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youthEntering the whirlpool.Gentile or JewO you who turn the wheel and look to windward,320 Consider Phlebas,who was once handsome and tall as you.V.WHAT THE THUNDER SAIDAFTER the torchlight red on sweaty facesAfter the frosty silence in the gardensAfter the agony in stony placesThe shouting and the crying325Prison and place and reverberationOf thunder of spring over distant mountainsHe who was living is now deadWe who were living are now dyingWith a little patience330Here is no water but only rockRock and no water and the sandy roadThe road winding above among the mountainsWhich are mountains of rock without waterIf there were water we should stop and drink335 Amongst the rock one cannot stop or thinkSweat is dry and feet are in the sandIf there were only water amongst the rockDead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit340There is not even silence in the mountainsBut dry sterile thunder without rainThere is not even solitude in the mountainsBut red sullen faces sneer and snarlFrom doors of mudcracked housesIf there were water345And no rockIf there were rockAnd also waterAnd waterA spring350A pool among the rockIf there were the sound of water onlyNot the cicadaAnd dry grass singingBut sound of water over a rock355Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop dropBut there is no waterWho is the third who walks always beside you? When I count,there are only you and I together360 But when I look ahead up the white roadThere is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle,hoodedI do not know whether a man or a woman—But who is that on the other side of you?365What is that sound high in the airMurmur of maternal lamentationWho are those hooded hordes swarmingOver endless plains,stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only370What is the city over the mountainsCracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towersJerusalem Athens AlexandriaVienna London375UnrealA woman drew her long black hair out tightAnd fiddled whisper music on those stringsAnd bats with baby faces in the violet lightWhistled,and beat their wings380And crawled head downward down a blackened wallAnd upside down in air were towersTolling reminiscent bells,that kept the hoursAnd voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.In this decayed hole among the mountains385In the faint moonlight,the grass is singingOver the tumbled graves,about the chapelThere is the empty chapel,only the wind's home.It has no windows,and the door swings,Dry bones can harm no one.390Only a cock stood on the rooftreeCo co rico co co ricoIn a flash of lightning.Then a damp gust Bringing rainGanga was sunken,and the limp leaves395 Waited for rain,while the black clouds Gathered far distant,over Himavant.The jungle crouched,humped in silence.Then spoke the thunderD A400Datta:what have we given?My friend,blood shaking my heartThe awful daring of a moment's surrender Which an age of prudence can never retractBy this,and this only,we have existed405 Which is not to be found in our obituariesOr in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitorIn our empty roomsD A410Dayadhvam:I have heard the keyTurn in the door once and turn once onlyWe think of the key,each in his prisonThinking of the key,each confirms a prisonOnly at nightfall,aetherial rumours415Revive for a moment a broken CoriolanusD ADamyata:The boat respondedGaily,to the hand expert with sail and oarThe sea was calm,your heart would have responded420 Gaily,when invited,beating obedientTo controlling handsI sat upon the shoreFishing,with the arid plain behind meShall I at least set my lands in order?425London Bridge is falling down falling down falling downPoi s'ascose nel foco che gli affinaQuando fiam ceu chelidon—O swallow swallowLe Prince d'Aquitaineàla tour abolieThese fragments I have shored against my ruins430Why then Ile fit you.Hieronymo's mad againe.Datta.Dayadhvam.Damyata.Shantih shantih shantih查良铮译《荒原》“因为我在古米亲眼看见西比尔吊在笼子里。

国外名著书名中英对照

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
《睡谷的传说》(华盛顿·欧文,美国)
The Merchant of Venice
《威尼斯商人》(莎士比亚，英国）
The Merry Wives of Windsor
《温莎的风流娘儿们》(莎士比亚，英国）
The Old Curiosity Shop
Jane Eyre
《简·爱》(夏洛特·勃朗特,英国)
Jean-Christophe(
《约翰·克利斯朵夫》(罗曼·罗兰,法国)
King Lear
《李尔王》(莎士比亚，英国）
Lady Chatterlay\'s Lover
《查太莱夫人的情人》(劳伦斯,英国)
Les Miserables
《悲惨世界》(雨果,法国)
Little Women
《小妇人》(露易莎·梅·奥尔科特,美国)
Love of Life
《热爱生命》(杰克.伦敦,美国)
Mansfiela Park
《曼斯菲尔德庄园》(简·奥斯汀,英国)
Measure for Measure
《自作自受》(莎士比亚，英国）
As You Like it
《皆大欢喜》(莎士比亚，英国）
Bel-Ami
《漂亮朋友》(基·德·莫泊桑,法国)
Canterbury Tales
《坎特伯雷故事集》(杰弗里·乔叟,英国)
Childe Harold\'s Pilgrimage
《查尔德·哈罗德游记》(拜伦,英国)
《毛猿》(尤金·奥尼尔,美国)
The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling

荒原及汉语翻译

艾略特《荒原The Waste Land.》（原文及译本）作者: T.S. Eliot (1888–1965). The Waste Land. 1922.The Waste LandI. THE BURIAL OF THE DEADAPRIL is the cruellest month, breedingLilacs out of the dead land, mixingMemory and desire, stirringDull roots with spring rain.Winter kept us warm, covering 5Earth in forgetful snow, feedingA 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, 10And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,And I was frightened. He said, Marie, 15Marie, 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 growOut of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 20You cannot say, or guess, for you know onlyA 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. OnlyThere is shadow under this red rock, 25(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),And I will show you something different from eitherYour shadow at morning striding behind youOr your shadow at evening rising to meet you;I will show you fear in a handful of dust. 30Frisch weht der WindDer Heimat zu.Mein Irisch Kind,Wo weilest du?'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; 35'They called me the hyacinth girl.'—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could notSpeak, and my eyes failed, I was neitherLiving nor dead, and I knew nothing, 40Looking into the heart of light, the silence.Od' und leer das Meer.Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,Had a bad cold, neverthelessIs known to be the wisest woman in Europe, 45With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,The lady of situations. 50Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see. I do not findThe Hanged Man. Fear death by water. 55I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:One must be so careful these days.Unreal City, 60Under 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. 65Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hoursWith a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying 'Stetson! 'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! 70'That corpse you planted last year in your garden,'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?'Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again! 75'You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!'II. A GAME OF CHESSTHE Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,Glowed on the marble, where the glassHeld up by standards wrought with fruited vinesFrom which a golden Cupidon peeped out 80(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table asThe glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,From satin cases poured in rich profusion; 85In vials of ivory and coloured glassUnstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confusedAnd drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the airThat freshened from the window, these ascended 90In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,Flung their smoke into the laquearia,Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.Huge sea-wood fed with copperBurned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, 95 In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.Above the antique mantel was displayedAs though a window gave upon the sylvan sceneThe change of Philomel, by the barbarous kingSo rudely forced; yet there the nightingale 100Filled all the desert with inviolable voiceAnd still she cried, and still the world pursues,'Jug Jug' to dirty ears.And other withered stumps of timeWere told upon the walls; staring forms 105Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. Footsteps shuffled on the stair.Under the firelight, under the brush, her hairSpread out in fiery pointsGlowed into words, then would be savagely still. 110'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'I think we are in rats' alley 115Where the dead men lost their bones.'What is that noise?'The wind under the door.'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'Nothing again nothing. 120'Do'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember'Nothing?'I rememberThose are pearls that were his eyes. 125'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'ButO O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—It's so elegantSo intelligent 130'What shall I do now? What shall I do?''I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street'With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?'What shall we ever do?'The hot water at ten. 135And if it rains, a closed car at four.And we shall play a game of chess,Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door. When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said—I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself, 140HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIMENow Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave yo uTo get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, 145He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time,And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said. 150Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight l ook.HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIMEIf you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.Others can pick and choose if you can't.But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling. 155You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.(And her only thirty-one.)I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.) 160 The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the sa me.You are a proper fool, I said.Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,What you get married for if you don't want children?HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME 165Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIMEHURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIMEGoonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. 170Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good n ight.III. THE FIRE SERMONTHE river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leafClutch and sink into the wet bank. The windCrosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. 17 5Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette endsOr other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; 180 Departed, have left no addresses.By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept...Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.But at my back in a cold blast I hear 185The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.A rat crept softly through the vegetationDragging its slimy belly on the bankWhile I was fishing in the dull canalOn a winter evening round behind the gashouse 190Musing upon the king my brother's wreckAnd on the king my father's death before him.White bodies naked on the low damp groundAnd bones cast in a little low dry garret,Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year. 195But at my back from time to time I hearThe sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.O the moon shone bright on Mrs. PorterAnd on her daughter 200They wash their feet in soda waterEt, O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!Twit twit twitJug jug jug jug jug jugSo rudely forc'd. 205TereuUnreal CityUnder the brown fog of a winter noonMr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchantUnshaven, with a pocket full of currants 210C.i.f. London: documents at sight,Asked me in demotic FrenchTo luncheon at the Cannon Street HotelFollowed by a weekend at the Metropole.At the violet hour, when the eyes and back 215Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting,I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can seeAt the violet hour, the evening hour that strives 220 Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lightsHer stove, and lays out food in tins.Out of the window perilously spreadHer drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays, 225 On the divan are piled (at night her bed)Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugsPerceived the scene, and foretold the rest—I too awaited the expected guest. 230He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,One of the low on whom assurance sitsAs a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.The time is now propitious, as he guesses, 235The meal is ended, she is bored and tired, Endeavours to engage her in caressesWhich still are unreproved, if undesired.Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;Exploring hands encounter no defence; 240His vanity requires no response,And makes a welcome of indifference.(And I Tiresias have foresuffered allEnacted on this same divan or bed;I who have sat by Thebes below the wall 245And walked among the lowest of the dead.) Bestows on final patronising kiss,And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit...She turns and looks a moment in the glass,Hardly aware of her departed lover; 250Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: 'Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over.' When lovely woman stoops to folly andPaces about her room again, alone,She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, 255 And puts a record on the gramophone.'This music crept by me upon the waters'And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.O City city, I can sometimes hearBeside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, 260 The pleasant whining of a mandolineAnd a clatter and a chatter from withinWhere fishmen lounge at noon: where the wallsOf Magnus Martyr holdInexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold. 265 The river sweatsOil and tarThe barges driftWith the turning tideRed sails 270WideTo leeward, swing on the heavy spar.The barges washDrifting logsDown Greenwich reach 275Past the Isle of Dogs.Weialala leiaWallala leialalaElizabeth and LeicesterBeating oars 280The stern was formedA gilded shellRed and goldThe brisk swellRippled both shores 285Southwest windCarried down streamThe peal of bellsWhite towersWeialala leia 290Wallala leialala'Trams and dusty trees.Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.' 295 'My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart Under my feet. After the eventHe wept. He promised "a new start".I made no comment. What should I resent?' 'On Margate Sands. 300I can connectNothing with nothing.The broken fingernails of dirty hands.My people humble people who expect Nothing.' 305la laTo Carthage then I cameBurning burning burning burningO Lord Thou pluckest me outO Lord Thou pluckest 310burningIV. DEATH BY WATERPHLEBAS the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swellAnd the profit and loss.A current under sea 315Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fellHe passed the stages of his age and youthEntering the whirlpool.Gentile or JewO you who turn the wheel and look to windward, 320 Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you. V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAIDAFTER the torchlight red on sweaty facesAfter the frosty silence in the gardensAfter the agony in stony placesThe shouting and the crying 325Prison and place and reverberationOf thunder of spring over distant mountainsHe who was living is now deadWe who were living are now dyingWith a little patience 330Here is no water but only rockRock and no water and the sandy roadThe road winding above among the mountainsWhich are mountains of rock without waterIf there were water we should stop and drink 335 Amongst the rock one cannot stop or thinkSweat is dry and feet are in the sandIf there were only water amongst the rockDead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit 340There is not even silence in the mountainsBut dry sterile thunder without rainThere is not even solitude in the mountainsBut red sullen faces sneer and snarlFrom doors of mudcracked housesIf there were water 345And no rockIf there were rockAnd also waterAnd waterA spring 350A pool among the rockIf there were the sound of water onlyNot the cicadaAnd dry grass singingBut sound of water over a rock 355Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine treesDrip drop drip drop drop drop dropBut there is no waterWho is the third who walks always beside you?When I count, there are only you and I together 360But when I look ahead up the white roadThere is always another one walking beside youGliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hoodedI do not know whether a man or a woman—But who is that on the other side of you? 365What is that sound high in the airMurmur of maternal lamentationWho are those hooded hordes swarmingOver endless plains, stumbling in cracked earthRinged by the flat horizon only 370What is the city over the mountainsCracks and reforms and bursts in the violet airFalling towersJerusalem Athens AlexandriaVienna London 375UnrealA woman drew her long black hair out tightAnd fiddled whisper music on those stringsAnd bats with baby faces in the violet lightWhistled, and beat their wings 380And crawled head downward down a blackened wallAnd upside down in air were towersTolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hoursAnd voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells. In this decayed hole among the mountains 385In the faint moonlight, the grass is singingOver the tumbled graves, about the chapelThere is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.It has no windows, and the door swings,Dry bones can harm no one. 390Only a cock stood on the rooftreeCo co rico co co ricoIn a flash of lightning. Then a damp gustBringing rainGanga was sunken, and the limp leaves 395Waited for rain, while the black cloudsGathered far distant, over Himavant.The jungle crouched, humped in silence.Then spoke the thunderD A 400Datta: what have we given?My friend, blood shaking my heartThe awful daring of a moment's surrenderWhich an age of prudence can never retractBy this, and this only, we have existed 405Which is not to be found in our obituariesOr in memories draped by the beneficent spiderOr under seals broken by the lean solicitorIn our empty roomsD A 410Dayadhvam: I have heard the keyTurn in the door once and turn once onlyWe think of the key, each in his prisonThinking of the key, each confirms a prisonOnly at nightfall, aetherial rumours 415Revive for a moment a broken CoriolanusD ADamyata: The boat respondedGaily, to the hand expert with sail and oarThe sea was calm, your heart would have responded 420 Gaily, when invited, beating obedientTo controlling handsI sat upon the shoreFishing, with the arid plain behind meShall I at least set my lands in order? 425London Bridge is falling down falling down falling downPoi s'ascose nel foco che gli affinaQuando fiam ceu chelidon—O swallow swallowLe Prince d'Aquitaine àla tour abolieThese fragments I have shored against my ruins 430Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.Shantih shantih shantih-------------------------NOTESNot only the title, but the plan and a good deal of the incident alsymbolism of the poem were suggested by Miss Jessie L. Westo n'sbook on the Grail legend: From Ritual to Romance (Macmillan). Indeed, so deeply am I indebted, Miss Weston's book will eluci datethe difficulties of the poem much better than my notes can do; and Irecommend it (apart from the great interest of the book itself) toany who think such elucidation of the poem worth the trouble. Toanother work of anthropology I am indebted in general, one wh ich hasinfluenced our generation profoundly; I mean The Golden Boug h; Ihave used especially the two volumes Adonis, Attis, Osiris. Anyo newho is acquainted with these works will immediately recognize i n thepoem certain references to vegetation ceremonies.I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEADLine 20 Cf. Ezekiel 2:7.23. Cf. Ecclesiastes 12:5.31. V. Tristan und Isolde, i, verses 5–8.42. Id. iii, verse 24.46. I am not familiar with the exact constitution of the Tarot p ackof cards, from which I have obviously departed to suit my own convenience. The Hanged Man, a member of the traditional pac k, fitsmy purpose in two ways: because he is associated in my mind with theHanged God of Frazer, and because I associate him with the h oodedfigure in the passage of the disciples to Emmaus in Part V. Th ePhoenician Sailor and the Merchant appear later; also the 'crow ds ofpeople', and Death by Water is executed in Part IV. The Man withThree Staves (an authentic member of the Tarot pack) I associa te,quite arbitrarily, with the Fisher King himself.60. Cf. Baudelaire:Fourmillante cité, citépleine de rêves,Oùle spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant.63. Cf. Inferno, iii. 55–7:si lunga trattadi gente, ch'io non avrei mai credutoche morte tanta n'avesse disfatta.64. Cf. Inferno, iv. 25–27:Quivi, secondo che per ascoltare,non avea pianto, ma' che di sospiri,che l'aura eterna facevan tremare.68. A phenomenon which I have often noticed.74. Cf. the Dirge in Webster's White Devil.76. V. Baudelaire, Preface to Fleurs du Mal.II. A GAME OF CHESS77. Cf. Antony and Cleopatra, II. ii. 190.92. Laquearia. V. Aeneid, I. 726:dependent lychni laquearibus aureis incensi, et noctem flammis funalia vincunt.98. Sylvan scene. V. Milton, Paradise Lost, iv. 140.99. V. Ovid, Metamorphoses, vi, Philomela.100. Cf. Part III, l. 204.115. Cf. Part III, l. 195.118. Cf. Webster: 'Is the wind in that door still?'126. Cf. Part I, l. 37, 48.138. Cf. the game of chess in Middleton's Women beware Wom en.III. THE FIRE SERMON176. V. Spenser, Prothalamion.192. Cf. The Tempest, I. ii.196. Cf. Marvell, To His Coy Mistress.197. Cf. Day, Parliament of Bees:When of the sudden, listening, you shall hear,A noise of horns and hunting, which shall bringActaeon to Diana in the spring,Where all shall see her naked skin...199. I do not know the origin of the ballad from which these li nesare taken: it was reported to me from Sydney, Australia. 202. V. Verlaine, Parsifal.210. The currants were quoted at a price 'carriage and insuranc efree to London'; and the Bill of Lading, etc., were to be handed tothe buyer upon payment of the sight draft.218. Tiresias, although a mere spectator and not indeeda 'character', is yet the most important personage in the poem, uniting all the rest. Just as the one-eyed merchant, seller of currants, melts into the Phoenician Sailor, and the latter is not wholly distinct from Ferdinand Prince of Naples, so all the wo menare one woman, and the two sexes meet in Tiresias. What Tires iassees, in fact, is the substance of the poem. The whole passage f romOvid is of great anthropological interest:...Cum Iunone iocos et 'maior vestra profecto estQuam, quae contingit maribus', dixisse, 'voluptas.'Illa negat; placuit quae sit sententia doctiQuaerere Tiresiae: venus huic erat utraque nota.Nam duo magnorum viridi coeuntia silvaCorpora serpentum baculi violaverat ictuDeque viro factus, mirabile, femina septemEgerat autumnos; octavo rursus eosdemVidit et 'est vestrae si tanta potentia plagae',Dixit 'ut auctoris sortem in contraria mutet,Nunc quoque vos feriam!' percussis anguibus isdemForma prior rediit genetivaque venit imago.Arbiter hic igitur sumptus de lite iocosaDicta Iovis firmat; gravius Saturnia iustoNec pro materia fertur doluisse suiqueIudicis aeterna damnavit lumina nocte,At pater omnipotens (neque enim licet inrita cuiquamFacta dei fecisse deo) pro lumine ademptoScire futura dedit poenamque levavit honore.221. This may not appear as exact as Sappho's lines, but I had inmind the 'longshore' or 'dory' fisherman, who returns at nightfa ll.253. V. Goldsmith, the song in The Vicar of Wakefield.257. V. The Tempest, as above.264. The interior of St. Magnus Martyr is to my mind one of t hefinest among Wren's interiors. See The Proposed Demolition of Nineteen City Churches (P. S. King & Son, Ltd.).266. The Song of the (three) Thames-daughters begins here. Fr om line292 to 306 inclusive they speak in turn. V. Götterdammerung, I II.i: The Rhine-daughters.279. V. Froude, Elizabeth, vol. I, ch. iv, letter of De Quadra to Philip of Spain:In the afternoon we were in a barge, watching the games on th eriver. (The queen) was alone with Lord Robert and myself on t hepoop, when they began to talk nonsense, and went so far that LordRobert at last said, as I was on the spot there was no reason whythey should not be married if the queen pleased.293. Cf. Purgatorio, V. 133:'Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia;Siena mi fe', disfecemi Maremma.'307. V. St. Augustine's Confessions: 'to Carthage then I came, wherea cauldron of unholy loves sang all about mine ears'.308. The complete text of the Buddha's Fire Sermon (which corresponds in importance to the Sermon on the Mount) from whichthese words are taken, will be found translated in the late Hen ryClarke Warren's Buddhism in Translation (Harvard Oriental Seri es).Mr. Warren was one of the great pioneers of Buddhist studies i n theOccident.309. From St. Augustine's Confessions again. The collocation of these two representatives of eastern and western asceticism, as theculmination of this part of the poem, is not an accident.V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAIDIn the first part of Part V three themes are employed: the jour neyto Emmaus, the approach to the Chapel Perilous (see Miss Wes ton'sbook), and the present decay of eastern Europe.357. This is Turdus aonalaschkae pallasii, the hermit-thrush whi ch Ihave heard in Quebec County. Chapman says (Handbook of Bir ds inEastern North America) 'it is most at home in secluded woodla nd andthickety retreats.... Its notes are not remarkable for variety or volume, but in purity and sweetness of tone and exquisite mod ulationthey are unequalled.' Its 'water-dripping song' is justly celebrated.360. The following lines were stimulated by the account of one ofthe Antarctic expeditions (I forget which, but I think one of Shackleton's): it was related that the party of explorers, at the extremity of their strength, had the constant delusion that there was one more member than could actually be counted.367–77. Cf. Hermann Hesse, Blick ins Chaos:Schon ist halb Europa, schon ist zumindest der halbe Osten Eu ropasauf dem Wege zum Chaos, fährt betrunken im heiligen Wahn a m Abgrundentlang und singt dazu, singt betrunken und hymnisch wie Dmi triKaramasoff sang. Ueber diese Lieder lacht der Bürger beleidigt, derHeilige und Seher hört sie mit Tränen.401. 'Datta, dayadhvam, damyata' (Give, sympathize, control). T hefable of the meaning of the Thunder is found in the Brihadaran yaka--Upanishad, 5, 1. A translation is found in Deussen's Sechzig Upanishads des Veda, p. 489.407. Cf. Webster, The White Devil, V, vi:...they'll remarryEre the worm pierce your winding-sheet, ere the spiderMake a thin curtain for your epitaphs.411. Cf. Inferno, xxxiii. 46:ed io sentii chiavar l'uscio di sottoall'orribile torre.Also F. H. Bradley, Appearance and Reality, p. 346:My external sensations are no less private to myself than are m ythoughts or my feelings. In either case my experience falls with inmy own circle, a circle closed on the outside; and, with all its elements alike, every sphere is opaque to the others which surr oundit.... In brief, regarded as an existence which appears in a soul, the whole world for each is peculiar and private to that soul.424. V. Weston, From Ritual to Romance; chapter on the Fishe r King.427. V. Purgatorio, xxvi. 148.'Ara vos prec per aquella valor'que vos guida al som de l'escalina,'sovegna vos a temps de ma dolor.'Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina.428. V. Pervigilium Veneris. Cf. Philomela in Parts II and III. 429. V. Gerard de Nerval, Sonnet El Desdichado.431. V. Kyd's Spanish Tragedy.433. Shantih. Repeated as here, a formal ending to an Upanishad. 'The Peace which passeth understanding' is a feeble translation of the conduct of this word.三个译本（查良铮、汤永宽、赵萝蕤）之查良铮译《荒原》，并向查老致敬！荒原。

The Wasteland of T.S.Eliot【艾略特长诗《荒原》的主旨+背景+框架+内容的概括分析】(全英文)

T.S. ELIOT: THE WASTELANDThis poem was written for the most part while in a sanatorium in Lausanne in Switzerland recovering from nervous exhaustion (not the least cause of which was his marriage to Viv). A revolutionary poem both stylistically- and thematically-speaking, Pound described it as the ‘justification of our modern experiment, since 1900’. Although this is a difficult poem to sum up (the vastness of its scope has made some critics describe it as the epic of the Twentieth century and even Eliot conceptualised it as a collection of separate poems rather than one whole poem), there are a number of technical and thematic features which are worth noting.Formal Strategies:Heteroglossia / Montage:multiple voices succeed each other with alarming and bewildering rapidity. There is, notwithstanding a bizarre footnote crediting the figure of Tiresias with more importance in this respect than he has, no single, central speaker who unifies the multiplicity of perspectives offered in the poem. This is not a single dramatic monologue. Rather, many different chunks of the text (there are no clear demarcations) seem to be snatches (mini-monologues) uttered by different, individually recognisable personalities. At other times, there are passages seemingly uttered by oracular voices possessed of an almost visionary, prophetic, even Biblical quality (e.g. in the first and final sections). At other points, the voice is almost incantatory: e.g. the beginning where a speaker or perhaps a chorus of voices seems to lament the return of life in springtime.The Absence of a Traditional Narrative Development:no plot, no consistent flow of thought (logical or associational) to assist the reader in making sense of the poem. The effect of this accumulation of discontinuous voices is to release a flurry of implications whose swiftness and dense complexity make the poem difficult to apprehend, let alone digest. In short, this is a poem seemingly without coherence which simply begs the reader to unify it even as it denies the reader the normal means to do so: there simply is no continuity of setting, voice, narrative or style. In the place of these, one finds:Naturalistic Description:Eliot focuses for the most part on the more sordid and depressing details of the contemporary metropolis (such urban poetry represented a radical departure from the traditional focus on the natural landscape and on the agreeable, the beautiful and the ideal in Romantic poetry and its derivatives). The poem serves up something akin to a montage of visual images that explore city life and the lives of its inhabitants by juxtaposing images, scenes, dramatic vignettes containing fragments of conversation, etc. At times, these images assume an almost phantasmagoric dimension (e.g. “Unreal city”). Sordid urban images commingle with images of the desert/aridity to the point where, quite clearly, they are meant to comment upon each other: to wit, modern life in the city is being compared to an arid, sterile waste. Recurring Leitmotifs:these, in accumulating significance, become evocative symbols: these are scenes, images and allusions that are repeated in separate contexts and, by dint of which, assume symbolic resonance: e.g. hibernation, the desert; the rock; water; drowning (the allusions to the drowned Alonso in The Tempest, Ophelia’s suicide in Hamlet, a drowned Phoenician). As these motifs return in new contexts, they bring with them suggestions and associations from former contexts and evolve into “progressively denser nodes of connotation and feeling” (Perkins 504) and, in so doing, become symbols. This process also serves to link the diverse parts of the poem together. Eliot both draws upon established symbols and forges images into fresh symbols that include: fire (lust), death (this can sometimes mean literal death, sometimes the living death which these Wastelanders lead), rebirth, and water (arouses a mixture of longing [it quenches thirst], fascination and fear [death by drowning]).Recondite Allusions:these are to all sorts of other texts (at least 37) via deliberate echoes of and quotations drawn from other writers. Today, Postmodernists celebrate such pastiche and parody as the basis of all art but many critics of the era saw it as the effect of a lack of creativity. Is The Waste Land the quintessential Modernist/Postmodernist text?Mythological Framework:Eliot, influenced by Sir James Frazer’s The Golden Bough, implicitly alludes to the myth of the dying and reviving god which recurs throughout human civilisation. According to Frazer, primitive man explained the natural diurnal and annual cycles in terms of “the waxing or waning strength of divine beings” and the “marriage, the death and the rebirth of the gods” (qtd. in Perkins, 506). The king was regarded as an incarnation of the fertility of the land: if he weakened or died, the land wasted and would become fertile only when the king was once more healed, resurrected from the dead or succeeded. These ancient fertility myths were incorporated into Christianity. As Perkins puts it,the poem alludes repeatedly to primitive vegetation myths and associates them with theGrail legends and the story of Jesus. In the underlying myth of the poem the land is adry, wintry desert because the king is impotent or dead; if he is healed or resurrectedspring will return, bringing the waters of life. The myth coalesces with the quasi-naturalistic description of the modern, urban world, which is the dry, sterile land. . . . Thepoem does not tell the myths as stories but only alludes to them. . . . (506-7)Eliot’s mythological allusions introduces a semblance of an ordering framework or, for want of a better word, narrative into the poem:[w]hen one knows the plot, one can vaguely integrate some of the episodes of the poemwith it. The fable provides a third language, besides naturalistic presentation andsymbolism, in which the state of affairs can be conceived; the story of the sick king andsterile land is a concrete and imaginative way of speaking of the condition of man. (508)As Eliot put it in a commentary upon Joyce’s Ulysses, the whole apparatus of symbolic and mythological allusion together with the other related narrative techniques served as a way of ‘controlling, of ordering, of giving shape and significance to the immense panorama of futility and anarchy which is contemporary history.’ The possibility of regeneration signalled by the myth here may hint at Eliot’s growing interest in Christianity.Overview:The narrative strategies described above are not isolatable from each other. It is impossible to consider the use of symbolism, for example, apart from the use of leitmotifs or the mythological framework. In short, in this poem, the juxtaposition of diverse fragments and strategies serves to make them comment on each other,suggesting manifold, complex and diverse implications. Through symbolism multifariousassociations and connotations were evoked and complexly interwoven. The‘mythological method’ added levels of reference at every point. By allusion, Eliot . . .brought another context to bear on his own, and the parallels and contrasts might offer arich, indefinite ‘vista.’ (513)Some questions arise, though. For example, is The Wasteland one poem or is it several?Content / Themes:The Human Condition:This is summed up in the very title of the poem.Sexuality:The very nature of the myths alluded to has the effect of underscoring the sexual as the source of much of the horrors of life in this wasteland. It is perhaps not accidental that The Wasteland was composed and published in the heyday of Freudian thought. The Wasteland seems to have a special relationship in particular with Freud’s celebrated Civilisation and Its Discontents which was composed in the years leading up to 1930 and which was the crystallisation of much of Freud’s thinking up to this point. Freud’semphasis on the degree to which the harmony of human civilisation was merely a facade, predicated as it is upon the repression of the sexual drive and of aggression (his celebrated conflict between the so-called ‘reality’ and ‘pleasure principles’) is echoed in this poem in which sex, usually in some decadent and sullied form, is almost incessantly evoked (especially in sub-poems II and III). Sex is, indeed, the preoccupation of much of Eliot’s poetry. This is a poem which seems to identify the source of the deadening of moral life and the corruption of civilisation with a perversion of the act of procreation that is synonymous with life itself. This link between Frazer and Freud is directly addressed by Eliot who remarked once that The Golden Bough is a work “of no less importance for our time than the complementary work of Freud--throwing its light on the obscurities of the soul from a different angle”(qtd. in Perkins, 509).Dialectic of Form and Content:Marshall McLuhan once argued that sometimes the ‘medium is the message.’ This is of relevance, arguably, to The Wasteland: Perkins argues that “meanings are ambiguous, emotions ambivalent; the fragments do not make an ordered whole. But precisely this, the poem illustrates, is the human condition” (513). The poem conveys in one vignette after the other, the “sickness of the human spirit”(514), the “weakening of identity and will, of religious faith and moral confidence, the feelings of apathy, loneliness, helplessness, rootlessness, and fear” (514). Thepanoramic range and inclusiveness of the poem, which only Eliot’s fragmentary andelliptical juxtapositions could have achieved so powerfully in a brief work, held in onevision not only contemporary London and Europe but also human life stretching far backinto time. (514)Amidst this welter of confusion, people struggle to make sense of an existence which impedes every attempt to do so. Hence the appropriateness of the end where a “total disintegration is suggested in a jumble . . . of literary quotations” (514).。

The Wasteland of T.S.Eliot【艾略特长诗《荒原》的主旨+背景+框架+内容的概括分析】(全英文)

瓦伦西亚大学教授如何解读艾略特的长诗《荒原》(全英文)

T. S. Eliot. 2005 (1922): La tierra baldía. Edición bilingüe. Introducción y notas de Viorica Patea. Traducción José Luis Palomares. Madrid: Cátedra, Letras Universales, 2005. 328 pp.Paul Scott DerrickUniversitat de ValènciaPaul.S.Derrick@uv.esIt is practically impossible to overestimate the importance of T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land (1922), not only in the course of twentieth-century poetry in English, but for Western poetry in general. This single poem has been the object of many hundreds of critical articles and book-length studies. And that interest, that cultural fascination, still shows little sign of diminishing.Along with Pound’s Cantos (begun in 1915), Joyce’s Ulysses (1922), Williams’ Spring and All (1923) and Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury (1929), The Waste Land can be classed as one of a handful of ‘centrepiece texts’ of the first-generation Modernist enterprise. It is a masterwork of constructive destruction, a brilliant application of Cubist collage techniques to language. It is both an expression and a demonstration of the cultural malaise and the crisis of belief that resulted from the First World War. It is a profound experiment in the compression, or codification, of an encyclopaedic body of knowledge—as if we had sensed the need at that point in time to condense our heritage into complex, hermetic forms in order to preserve our cultural memory in the face of some impending disaster. But, in addition, it offers a possible therapy for our illness, an opportunity to put a broken world together again—or at least to practice putting it together again. And in this sense, The Waste Land is a powerful record of a yearning for health, wholeness and holiness (words which are all, as Eliot must have been aware, etymologically connected).The poet himself, however, claimed that he had no such exalted aims in mind in 1921 when, trying to recuperate in Margate from the stress contingent on his gradually disintegrating marriage to Vivien Haigh-Wood, he sat down to write what would eventually become part III, “The Fire Sermon”. (He had begun the poem at the end of 1919 as a long series of stylistic parodies with the title “He Do the Police in Different Voices”. He composed the final section, “What the Thunder Said”, in late 1921 in Lausanne, under the care of a pre-Freudian analyst named Roger Vittoz.) In his own, undoubtedly dissembling words, The Waste Land was intended to relieve “a personal and wholly insignificant grouse against life” (Eliot 1971: 1). All false modesty aside, the question that immediately arises is: how does an insignificant personal complaint get converted into such an astounding religious, philosophical and literary accomplishment?Providing a credible account of such a complicated process might be compared to producing a high-resolution, three-dimensional, multi-sectional holographic map of the occult intestines of the Gordian Knot. But that’s what this edition does. The personal aspects of The Waste Land’s genesis, the stages of its development, its roots in Eliot’s previous experience, the warp and woof of its incredible texture and much much more are masterfully illuminated in Viorica Patea’s lengthy and well-written142Paul Scott Derrick Introduction to this new translation of The Waste Land into Spanish. There seem to be very few of those hundreds of studies the poem has inspired that she is not aware of.It first appeared in the London journal Criterion, in October 1922. It was published one month later in New York in The Dial. For reasons that Eliot never made clear, he decided to append those famous notes to each of the poem’s five sections for its first edition in book form (New York: Boni and Liveright, [December] 1922). Did he do so simply for commercial reasons, to make the book longer? Did he feel the need to protect himself against possible claims of plagiarism? Was it part of the overall strategy of Modernism to present its practitioners as connoisseurs, a subterfuge by which the Modernist poet distinguished himself from the sentimentality of many fin-de-siècle versifiers and emphasized his ‘professionalism’?Or was it a sincere attempt at explanation, to make the poem accessible to more than an elite coterie of privileged readers? Whatever the motives may have been, those notes have raised more questions for serious students of Eliot’s work than they answer and have notoriously become an integral factor in the poem’s lasting fascination.But of course it was not Eliot’s duty, or intention, really to explain his own poem to the public. That is a task for those of us who follow. In this edition, Dr. Patea, Senior Lecturer in American literature at the University of Salamanca and a specialist in Modernist poetry, elucidates the meaning and significance of The Waste Land just about as thoroughly and effectively as it seems possible to do.The book consists of three general sections. The first, the Introduction, provides us with a wealth of background material which is an indispensable aid for an appreciative reading of the text. The second one is a meticulously annotated bi-lingual edition of the poem itself, and its notes, with a translation by José Luis Palomares. And the third, an extremely helpful addition, is an Appendix of ten short texts (1-2 pages), also in bi-lingual format, which are among the most important of The Waste Land’s cornucopia of intertextual references.The Introduction, also structured in three sections, is a well-balanced mix of biographical information and critical assessment of Eliot’s thought and work. This kind of approach is always enlightening, but especially so in the case of an author who went to such extremes to obfuscate the many traces of his personal life that inform his work. We learn about Eliot’s New England family background, and the atmosphere surrounding his childhood; the influence of Irving Babbit and George Santayana during his undergraduate years at Harvard and the early but lasting literary influence of Baudelaire, French Symbolism and the work of Dante.Few readers beyond specialized academic circles are aware that Eliot carried out his graduate studies at Harvard in philosophy. Dr. Patea provides a very informative discussion of this fundamental period in his intellectual development, pointing out the importance for him of teachers such as Josiah Royce, William James, Bertrand Russell and, above all, the subject of his doctoral dissertation (which he completed but, because of the First World War, never defended), the English idealist philosopher F. H. Bradley. Patea is especially effective in signalling the impact of Bradley’s philosophy on Eliot’s poetry and tracing Bradley’s imprint in The Waste Land. This very complex aspect of the poem was first seriously considered by Anne C. Bolgan (1973), who rediscovered Eliot’s dissertation in the Pusey Library at Harvard. Since then, few commentators haveReviews 143 failed at least to mention Bradley, although the most satisfying studies in this respect are probably still those of Schusterman (1988) and Jain (1992).We are also given a good overview of Eliot’s earliest critical essays and how they are intimately linked with the content of the papers he wrote for many of his graduate courses in philosophy, as well as a survey of the development of his poetry and criticism over the course of his life.The second part of the Introduction offers a panorama of detailed information concerning The Waste Land itself and discusses the most important influences contributing to its innovative form and breathtaking scope. We are given a fine description of Ezra Pound’s incisive editorial work. In convincing Eliot to cut out more than 40% of the original text, Pound ensured not only a tighter and stronger organization and a more allusive and esoteric quality, but also a higher degree of Cubist fragmentation. Patea explains how Eliot discovered what he described as ‘the mythical method’—which defines his use of history in the poem—in his own reading of Joyce’s recently-published Ulysses. She also gives a clear account of the use Eliot made of Jessie Weston’s From Ritual to Romance and James Frazer’s The Golden Bough. Because Eliot directly cited these two works in the introductory paragraph of his notes to the poem, their importance is undeniable (regardless of what his motives for appending that material may have been). Patea’s Introduction, however, places them in a much more balanced perspective than usual, within the framework of the mythical method, among a larger number of literary, religious, anthropological and psychological influences.Finally, the third part of the Introduction devotes just over 75 pages to a detailed, insightful and coherent close reading of the poem. Many ingenious metaphors have been invented to illustrate what happens in The Waste Land. My own personal choice is the archaeological site. The ultimate grace of the Eliot/Pound collage technique is that it confronts us with a field of confusing fragments that we need to reconstruct, fragments that happen to be the remains of earlier cultural continuities:the various traditions of the West, primitivism and the wisdom of the East. This act of reconstruction corresponds with the final phase of the Cubist aesthetics. After the painter has analyzed a scene, taken it apart and placed the pieces into a new design, the viewer must complete the process by recreating the original scene (or stimulus) from the confusing cues the painting provides. In the case of The Waste Land though, the original scene, or stimulus, is the whole expanse of Western culture. The reader, like an archaeologist at a dig, is forced to use every bit of intelligence, imagination and knowledge at his or her command to flesh out those fragments, reconstitute them and to recover, or maybe better, recreate the historical continuity those fragments are remnants of. There can be a virtually unlimited number of coherent and valid explications of the poem. But every one of them is, in effect, an individual step toward recovering the health—or the wholeness—of the waste land of Western society. In her particular unfolding of this enigmatic complex of language and cultural memory (and forgetfulness), Dr. Patea applies a fine imagination and a generous intelligence to the large body of knowledge that the first two sections of her essay display.The Waste Land ends with an appeal to Buddhist and Hindu scriptures as offering a possible model for a cure to the spiritual aridity that is destroying the West:144Paul Scott Derrick con estos fragmentos a salvo apuntalé mis ruinasSea, pues, que habré de obligaros. Hierónimo esta furioso otra vez.Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.Shanti shanti shanti (285)The poem itself, in spite of its apparently chaotic fragmentation and pervasive air of pessimism, constitutes a journey from despair to hope. “La tierra baldía acaba”, writes Patea,con un atisbo de lo trascendente y la aceptación de lo sagrado. [. . .] La verdad revelada conduce a la conciencia lírica a la realidad de lo inexpresable “donde el significado aún persiste aunque las palabras fallan” [. . .] El poema de Eliot traza el viaje del alma a través del desierto de la ignorancia, del sufrimiento y de la sed de las aspiraciones terrenales.Concluye con la revelación de una realidad que libera su condición fragmentada. En el misterio de la contemplación el ser intuye la plenitud de este estado de conciencia no dual y no objetivable. (170-71)It is probably true that it began as an attempt to relieve “a personal and wholly insignificant grouse against life” (Eliot 1971: 1). But Eliot is an artist whose individual mind came to accommodate the collective mind of his culture. This is an artist who taught himself to write, as he describes it in his early essay ‘Tradition and the Individual Talent’, “not only with his own generation in his bones, but with a feeling that the whole of the literature of Europe from Homer and within it the whole of the literature of his own country has a simultaneous existence and composes a simultaneous order” (Eliot 1964: 4).His ‘insignificant grouse’ therefore inevitably transcends to a universal plane. The Waste Land is a prototype of the verbal collage, a case study of Eliot’s concept of the historical consciousness and the mythical method. It can be thought of as a puzzle to be solved, in which we solve—or resolve—ourselves. Or it might be thought of as a verbal field containing relics of all that we are losing—fragments, mixing memory and desire, forgetfulness and need, pointing us the way toward a new sense of wholeness.Several worthwhile contributions to the general field of Eliot studies have been published in Spain (Gibert 1983; Abad 1992; Zambrano Carballo 1996; Vericat 2004), each one commendable in its own way. But this edition of The Waste Land seems to me to offer Spanish readers the best opportunity to appreciate and to comprehend all of the manifold dimensions of this towering signpost to the Modern (and post-modern) condition.Works CitedAbad, Pilar 1992: Cómo leer a T. S. Eliot. Madrid: Júcar.Bolgan, Anne C. 1973: What the Thunder Really Said: A Retrospective Essay on the Making of “The Waste Land”. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s UP.Eliot, T. S. 1964: Selected Essays. New York: Harcourt Brace & World, Inc.———— 1971: The Waste Land: A Facsimile and Transcript of the Original Drafts Including the Annotations of Ezra Pound. Ed. Valerie Eliot. New York: Harcourt, Brace & Co.Reviews 145 Fraser, James George 1922: The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion, Abridged ed. New York: The MacMillan Co.Gibert Maceda, María Teresa 1983: Fuentes literarias en la poesía de T. S. Eliot. Madrid: Ediciones de la Universidad Complutense.Jain, Manju 1992: T. S. Eliot and American Philosophy: The Harvard Years. Cambridge: Cambridge UP.Schusterman, Richard 1988: T. S. Eliot and the Philosophy of Criticism. New York: Columbia UP. Vericat, Fabio 2004: From Physics to Metaphysics: Philosophy and Allegory in the Critical Writings of T. S. Eliot. Valencia: Universitat de València, Biblioteca Javier Coy d’estudis nord-americans.Weston, Jesse 1983 (1919): From Ritual to Romance. Gloucester MA: Peter Smith.Zambrano Carballo, Pablo 1996: La mística de la noche oscura: San Juan de la Cruz y T. S. Eliot.Huelva: Servicio de Publicaciones de la Universidad de Huelva.Received 20 May 2006Revised version received 5 October 2006。

TSEliot The Waste Land 艾略特《荒原》赏析

二十世纪最有影响力的一部诗作。
当代著名诗人兼评论家阿伦·塔特说第一次读《荒原》时，一个字也看不懂，不过他已意识到这是一首伟大的诗篇。
后来艾略特给诗加了５０多条注释。《荒原》是宣示著一战后西方文明的危机和传统价值观念的失落，反映了整整一代人理想的幻灭和绝望。
Structure
《荒原》全文分五个部分： “死者葬仪”； “对弈”； “火诫”； “水里的死亡”； “雷霆的话”。
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
去喝咖啡，又闲谈了一点钟。
我不是俄国人，原籍立陶宛，是纯德国种。
我们小时侯，在大公家做客，
那是我表兄，他带我出去滑雪撬，
我害怕死了。他说，玛丽，玛丽，
抓紧了呵。于是我们冲下去。
在山中，你会感到舒畅。
---Allusions and quotations
The style of the poem overall is marked by the hundreds
of allusions and quotations from other texts (classic
and obscure; "high-brow" and "low-brow") that Eliot peppered throughout the poem. In addition to the many "high-brow" references and/or quotes from poets like Baudelaire, Shakespeare, Ovid, and Homer, Eliot also included a couple of references to "low-brow" genres. A good example of this is Eliot's quote from the 1912 popular song "The Shakespearian Rag" by lyricists Herman Ruby and Gene Buck. There were also a number of low-brow references in the opening section of Eliot's original manuscript (when the poem was entitled "He Do The Police in Different Voices"), but they were removed from the final draft after Eliot cut this original opening section.

T.S.Eliot The Waste Land 艾略特《荒原》赏析

---disjointed structure

The Waste Land" is notable for its seemingly disjointed structure, indicative of the Modernist style of James Joyce's Ulysses (which Eliot cited as an influence and which he read the same year that he was writing "The Waste Land"). In the Modernist style, Eliot jumps from one voice or image to another without clearly delineating these shifts for the reader. He also includes phrases from multiple foreign languages (Latin, Greek, Italian, German, French and Sanskrit), indicative of Pound's influence.
---Allusions and quotations

The style of the poem overall is marked by the hundreds of allusions and quotations from other texts (classic and obscure; "high-brow" and "low-brow") that Eliot peppered throughout the poem. In addition to the many "high-brow" references and/or quotes from poets like Baudelaire, Shakespeare, Ovid, and Homer, Eliot also included a couple of references to "low-brow" genres. A good example of this is Eliot's quote from the 1912 popular song "The Shakespearian Rag" by lyricists Herman Ruby and Gene Buck. There were also a number of low-brow references in the opening section of Eliot's original manuscript (when the poem was entitled "He Do The Police in Different Voices"), but they were removed from the final draft after Eliot cut this original opening section.

荒原艾略特原文及解读

荒原艾略特原文及解读荒原艾略特是美国诗人T.S.艾略特的代表作之一，该诗以其复杂的结构、深刻的哲学思考和充满象征意味的语言而闻名于世。

原文如下：We are the hollow menWe are the stuffed menLeaning togetherHeadpiece filled with straw. Alas!Our dried voices, whenWe whisper togetherAre quiet and meaninglessAs wind in dry grassOr rats" feet over broken glassIn our dry cellarShape without form, shade without colour,Paralysed force, gesture without motion;Those who have crossedWith direct eyes, to death"s other KingdomRemember us--if at all--not as lostViolent souls, but onlyAs the hollow menThe stuffed men.解读：诗歌的第一部分，描绘了一个群体——“空洞的人”，他们没有灵魂，只有外壳。

他们被填充，但内心却是空洞的，仿佛一具用稻草填充的人偶。

他们倚靠在一起，带着用稻草填充的头盔，在沙漠般的环境中，他们枯干的声音相互耳语，却毫无意义。

第二部分，通过描述这些人物的外在形象来呈现他们的精神状态——他们是形态空洞的，没有色彩的，是一种瘫痪不前的力量，是没有动作的手势。

这里作者使用了“形状没有形式”和“阴影没有颜色”来描绘这些人物，强调他们的虚无和缺乏。

最后一部分，诗人提到那些“以直视死亡王国的目光渡过去”的人，但即使他们在记忆中想起这些“空洞的人”，他们也只会被看作是“空洞的人”，而不是“失落的暴力灵魂”。

美国诗人艾略特《荒原》译文

美国诗人艾略特《荒原》译文查良铮译《荒原》“因为我在古米亲眼看见西比尔吊在笼子里。

孩子们问她：你要什么，西比尔？她回答道：我要死。

”献给艾兹拉·庞德 ,更卓越的巧匠.一、死者的葬礼四月最残忍，从死了的土地滋生丁香，混杂着回忆和欲望，让春雨挑动着呆钝的根。

冬天保我们温暖，把大地埋在忘怀的雪里，使干了的球茎得一点点生命。

夏天来得意外，随着一阵骤雨到了斯坦伯吉西；我们躲在廊下，等太阳出来，便到郝夫加登去喝咖啡，又闲谈了一点钟。

我不是俄国人，原籍立陶宛，是纯德国种。

我们小时侯，在大公家做客，那是我表兄，他带我出去滑雪撬，我害怕死了。

他说，玛丽，玛丽，抓紧了呵。

于是我们冲下去。

在山中，你会感到舒畅。

我大半夜看书，冬天去到南方。

这是什么根在抓着，是什么树杈从这片乱石里长出来？人子呵，你说不出，也猜不着，因为你只知道一堆破碎的形象，受着太阳拍击，而枯树没有阴凉，蟋蟀不使人轻松，干石头发不出流水的声音。

只有一片阴影在这红色的岩石下，（来吧，请走进这红岩石下的阴影）我要指给你一件事，它不同于你早晨的影子，跟在你后面走也不象你黄昏的影子，起来迎你，我要指给你恐惧是在一撮尘土里。

风儿吹得清爽，吹向我的家乡，我的爱尔兰孩子，如今你在何方？“一年前你初次给了我风信子，他们都叫我风信子女郎。

”——可是当我们从风信子花园走回，天晚了，你的两臂抱满，你的头发是湿的，我说不出话来，两眼看不见，我不生也不死，什么也不知道，看进光的中心，那一片沉寂。

荒凉而空虚是那大海。

索索斯垂丝夫人，著名的相命家，患了重感冒，但仍然是欧洲公认的最有智慧的女人，她有一副鬼精灵的纸牌。

这里，她说，你的牌，淹死的腓尼基水手，（那些明珠曾经是他的眼睛。

看！）这是美女贝拉磨娜，岩石的女人，有多种遭遇的女人。

这是有三根杖的人，这是轮盘，这是独眼商人，还有这张牌是空白的，他拿来背在背上，不许我看见。

我找不到。

那绞死的人。

小心死在水里。

我看见成群的人，在一个圈里转。

艾略特荒原中英对照

(一)艾略特是中国现代朦胧诗歌的鼻祖在网上，很多对中国现代诗歌(包括朦胧诗歌)起源和继承的评论是似是而非的。

这可能是由于一些国内不懂外文的评论家的错误导向所致，也有可能是由于自己就没有理解好中国的现代诗歌，而混枭了自己的观点，也误人子弟。

中国的现代诗歌，究其源泉是由于五四时期由胡适等人发起的白话文运动，白话诗也就应运产生。

一个很有意思的现象是，很多著名的作家严肃的学者并没有留下多少白话诗歌，只有一些类似嘻皮士的文人们，象刘半农，徐志摩等等，为了和女人的打情骂俏而留下过一首半首。

中国早期的现代诗歌应该是继承于欧洲而不是美洲。

这得益于一些留学欧洲学人的推荐和传播。

象卞之琳，徐志摩，李金发等等，所写的诗歌继承了欧洲维多利亚式的风格，并没有多少的创新，节奏的和谐和词澡的华丽是其主要的特点，但并没有什么心灵的震动，是沃斯瓦斯和波尔莱特在中国的翻版，甚至从中可以看到雪莱和拜伦的影子。

从中很少看到美洲惠特曼的影子，大概惠诗歌中的自然和平民的形象和这些留学欧洲的没落贵族的口吻不太合适所致。

很多人把这几个人归结为现代朦胧诗歌的起源。

其实是不当的。

这时候的诗歌还只能是现代诗歌而不是朦胧诗歌，当然，相对于旧体诗歌意象和词汇的运用已经有了朦胧的感觉。

中国诗歌在七十年代末八十年代初期，有一个特别辉煌的复兴时期。

一批经过文革，上过山下过乡的知识青年们用在煤油灯下的知识积累，带着对生活的感性体验，在马可雅夫斯基和莱蒙托夫的指引下开始中国诗歌的新一轮革命。

这期间杰出的诗人有北岛，舒婷等。

在八十年代的中末期，中国诗坛终于迎来了大爆炸的时期。

在理论领袖谢冕的指引下，一批批锐意的具有现代意识的中国诗人们以严辰主编的诗歌报为阵地，纷纷打出旗号，成立山头，一时间中国的诗歌流派竟然有几十家之多。

所写的诗歌讦曲骜牙，常人难以读懂。

这就是后来广被非议的现代朦胧诗。

为什么称为现代朦胧诗？这是为了区别于以唐朝李商隐为代表的古体朦胧诗歌。

中国的现代朦胧诗直接继承于艾略特，Pound等人的诗风,摈弃了近代诗歌徐志摩等人所提倡的维多利亚的模式。

艾略特《荒原》

艾略特《荒原》前言“因為我在古米親眼看見西比爾吊在籠子裏。

孩子們問她：你要什麼，西比爾？她回答道：我要死。

”獻給艾茲拉·龐德更卓越的巧匠一、死者的葬禮四月最殘忍，從死了的土地滋生丁香，混雜著回憶和欲望，讓春雨挑動著呆鈍的根。

冬天保我們溫暖，把大地埋在忘懷的雪裏，使幹了的球莖得一點點生命。

夏天來得意外，隨著一陣驟雨到了斯坦伯吉西；我們躲在廊下，等太陽出來，便到郝夫加登去喝咖啡，又閒談了一點鐘。

我不是俄國人，原籍立陶宛，是純德國種。

我們小時侯，在大公家做客，那是我表兄，他帶我出去滑雪撬，我害怕死了。

他說，瑪麗，瑪麗，抓緊了呵。

於是我們沖下去。

在山中，你會感到舒暢。

我大半夜看書，冬天去到南方。

這是什麼根在抓著，是什麼樹杈從這片亂石裏長出來？人子呵，你說不出，也猜不著，因為你只知道一堆破碎的形象，受著太陽拍擊，而枯樹沒有陰涼，蟋蟀不使人輕鬆，幹石頭髮不出流水的聲音。

只有一片陰影在這紅色的岩石下，（來吧，請走進這紅岩石下的陰影）我要指給你一件事，它不同於你早晨的影子，跟在你後面走也不象你黃昏的影子，起來迎你，我要指給你恐懼是在一撮塵土裏。

風兒吹得清爽，吹向我的家鄉，我的愛爾蘭孩子，如今你在何方？“一年前你初次給了我風信子，他們都叫我風信子女郎。

”——可是當我們從風信子花園走回，天晚了，你的兩臂抱滿，你的頭髮是濕的，我說不出話來，兩眼看不見，我不生也不死，什麼也不知道，看進光的中心，那一片沉寂。

荒涼而空虛是那大海。

索索斯垂絲夫人，著名的相命家，患了重感冒，但仍然是歐洲公認的最有智慧的女人，她有一副鬼精靈的紙牌。

這裏，她說，你的牌，淹死的腓尼基水手，（那些明珠曾經是他的眼睛。

看！）這是美女貝拉磨娜，岩石的女人，有多種遭遇的女人。

這是有三根杖的人，這是輪盤，這是獨眼商人，還有這張牌是空白的，他拿來背在背上，不許我看見。

我找不到。

那絞死的人。

小心死在水裏。

我看見成群的人，在一個圈裏轉。

謝謝你。

如果你看見伊奎通太太，就說我親自把星象圖帶過去：這年頭人得萬事小心呵。

The Wasteland by T.S.Eliot

o n t e n tsAbout the authorThomas Stearns Eliot (September 26,1888 - January 4, 1965), was an Anglo-American poet, dramatist, and literary critic.Eliot was born into a prominent Unitarian Saint Louis, Missouri family; his fifth cousin, Tom Eliot, was Chancellor of Washington University, and his grandfather, William Greenleaf Eliot, was the school’s founder. Eliot’s major work shows few signs of St. Louis, but there was, in his youth, a Prufrock furniture store in town.Following his graduation from Harvard University in 1909, T.S.Eliot made his life and literary career in Britain, following thecurtailment of a tour of Germany by the outbreak of World War I.After the War, in the 1920s, he would spend time with other great artists in the Montparnasse Quarter in Paris, France where hewould be photographed by Man Ray. He dabbled in Buddhism and studied Sanskrit and was a student of G. I. Gurdjieff.Through the influence of Ezra Pound he came to prominence with the publication of a poem, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock , in 1915. His style was very fresh and modernist.In 1922 came the publication of Eliot’s long poem The Waste Land . Composed during a period of enormous personal difficulty for Eliot—his ill-fated marriage to Vivien Haigh-Wood was already foundering, and both he and Vivien suffered from precarioushealth—The Waste Land offered a bleak portrait of post-World War I Europe, sometimes laced with disgust, but also hesitantly gesturing towards the possibility of (religious?) redemption. Despite thefamous difficulty of the poem—its slippage between satire and prophecy, its abrupt and unannounced changes of speaker, location and time, its elegaic but intimidating summoning up of a vast and dissonant range of cultures and literatures—the poem hasnonetheless become a familiar touchstone of modern literature. Here are some of its perhaps most famous phrases: “April is the cruellest month”; “I will show you fear in a handful of dust”; “Shantih shantih shantih.” Ezra Pound contributed greatly to the poem with hiseditorial advice (the facsimile edition of the original manuscript with Pound’s queries and corrections, published in 1971, is essential reading for admirers of the poem); in acknowledgement, Eliot later dedicated the poem to him: “For Ezra Pound, ‘Il miglior fabbro’” (the better craftsman).Eliot’s later work, following his conversion to Anglicanism on June 29, 1927, is often but by no means exclusively religious in nature. This includes such works as The Hollow Men, Ash-Wednesday, The Journey of the Magi, and Four Quartets. Eliot considered Four Quartets to be his masterpiece, as it draws upon his vast knowledge of mysticism and philosophy. It consists of four poems, “Burnt Norton,” “The Dry Salvages,” “East Coker,” and “Little Gidding.” Each of these runs to several hundred lines total and is broken into five sections. Although they resist easycharacterization, they have many things in common: each begins with a rumination on the geographical location of its title, and each meditates on the nature of time in some important respect—theological, historical, physical, and on its relation to the human condition. A reflective early reading suggests an inexactsystematicity among them; they approach the same ideas in varying but overlapping ways, although they do not necessarily exhaust their questions.“Burnt Norton” asks what it means to consider things that aren’to n t e n tsContentsthe case but might have been. We see the shell of an abandoned house, and Eliot toys with the idea that all these “merely possible”realities are present together, but invisible to us: All the possible ways people might walk across a courtyard add up to a vast dance we can’t see; Children who aren’t there are hiding in the bushes.Eliot’s plays, mostly in verse, include Murder in the Cathedral (1935), The Family Reunion (1939), The Cocktail Party (1949), The Confidential Clerk (1953) and The Elder Statesman (1958).Murder in the Cathedral is a frankly religious piece about the death of St Thomas Becket. He confessed to being influenced by,among others, the works of 17th century preacher, Lancelot Andrewes. Later, he was appointed to the committee formed to produce the “New English” translation of the Bible. In 1939 he published a book of poetry for children, Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats , which after his death became the basis of the hit West End and Broadway musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber, Cats .On November 4, 1948, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.After his death, his body was cremated and, according to Eliot’s wishes, the ashes taken to St Michael’s Church in East Coker, the village from which Eliot’s ancestors emigrated to America. A simple plaque commemorates him.As a note of trivia, late in his life, Eliot became somewhat of a penpal with comedian Groucho Marx. Eliot even requested a portrait of the comedian, which he then proudly displayed in his home.“The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock” is a greatly quoted and referenced piece. References have appeared in Hill Street Blues and The Long Goodbye by private-eye novelist Raymond Chandler.1.The Burial of the Dead.2. A Game of Chess.3.The Fire Sermon.4.Death by Water.5.What the Thunder Said.Click on a chapter number at the bottom of the screen to go to the first page of that chap-ter.The best way to read this ebook is in Full Screen mode: set Adobe Acrobat to Full Screen e Page Down to go to the next page, and press Escape to exit the Full Screen View.TS Eliot. The Wasteland.o n t e n tsPurchase the entire Coradella Collegiate Bookshelf on CD at 1The Wasteland.“Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo.”1.The burial of the dead.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.Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.NOTICECopyright © 2004 Please note that although the text of this ebook is in the public domain, thispdf edition is a copyrighted publication.FOR COMPLETE DETAILS, SEE /COPYRIGHTSo n t e n t sAnd when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,My cousin’s, 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, for you know only A 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. Only There is shadow under this red rock,(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),And 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. Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du?“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;“They called me the hyacinth girl.”- Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,Looking into the heart of light, the silence.Od’ und leer das Meer.Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,Had a bad cold, neverthelessIs known to be the wisest woman in Europe,With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,The lady of situations.Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:One must be so careful these days.Unreal City,Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,o n t e n t sA 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.Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying “Stetson!“You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!“That corpse you planted last year in your garden,“Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?“Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?“Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,“Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!“You! hypocrite lecteur! - mon semblable, - mon frere!”2.A game of chess.The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,Glowed on the marble, where the glassHeld 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 asThe glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,From satin cases poured in rich profusion;In vials of ivory and coloured glassUnstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,Unguent, powdered, or liquid - troubled, confused And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the airo n t e n t sThat 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 copperBurned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,In which sad light a carved dolphin swam.Above the antique mantel was displayedAs 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 voiceAnd still she cried, and still the world pursues,“Jug Jug” to dirty ears.And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring formsLeaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.Footsteps shuffled on the stair.Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery pointsGlowed into words, then would be savagely still.“My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.“Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.“What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?“I never know what you are thinking. Think.”I think we are in rats’ alleyWhere the dead men lost their bones.“What is that noise?”The wind under the door.“What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?” Nothing again nothing.“Do“You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember “Nothing?”I rememberThose are pearls that were his eyes.“Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?” But O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag -It’s so elegant So intelligent“What shall I do now? What shall I do?”I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street“With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?“What shall we ever do?”The hot water at ten.And if it rains, a closed car at four.And we shall play a game of chess,o n t e n t sPressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said -I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself,HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIMENow Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart.He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave youTo get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you.And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert,He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time,And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said.Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said.Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIMEIf you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said.Others can pick and choose if you can’t.But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling.You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.(And her only thirty-one.)I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face,It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.(She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.)The chemist said it would be alright, but I’ve never been the same.You are a proper fool, I said.Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said,What you get married for if you don’t want children?HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIMEWell, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot -HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIMEGoonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.o n t e n t s3.The fire sermon.The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The windCrosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette endsOr other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are de-parted.And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;Departed, have left no addresses.By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.But at my back in a cold blast I hearThe rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canalOn a winter evening round behind the gashouse Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck And on the king my father’s death before him.White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret,Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year.But at my back from time to time I hearThe sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter And on her daughterThey wash their feet in soda waterEt O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!Twit twit twitJug jug jug jug jug jug So rudely forc’d .TereuUnreal CityUnder the brown fog of a winter noono n t e n t sMr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants C.i.f. London: documents at sight,Asked me in demotic FrenchTo luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.At the violet hour, when the eyes and backTurn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting,I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Her stove, and lays out food in tins.Out of the window perilously spreadHer drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays,On the divan are piled (at night her bed)Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest -I too awaited the expected guest.He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,One of the low on whom assurance sitsAs a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.The time is now propitious, as he guesses,The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,Endeavours to engage her in caresses Which still are unreproved, if undesired.Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;Exploring hands encounter no defence;His vanity requires no response,And makes a welcome of indifference.(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all Enacted on this same divan or bed;I who have sat by Thebes below the wall And walked among the lowest of the dead.)Bestows one final patronising kiss,And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .She turns and looks a moment in the glass,Hardly aware of her departed lover;Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:“Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.”When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone,She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,And puts a record on the gramophone.“This music crept by me upon the waters”o n t e n t sAnd along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.O City city, I can sometimes hearBeside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,The pleasant whining of a mandoline And a clatter and a chatter from withinWhere fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls Of Magnus Martyr holdInexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold. The river sweats Oil and tarThe barges driftWith the turning tide Red sails WideTo leeward, swing on the heavy spar. The barges wash Drifting logsDown Greenwich reach Past the Isle of Dogs. Weialala leia Wallala leialalaElizabeth and Leicester Beating oarsThe stern was formedA gilded shell Red and gold The brisk swellRippled both shores Southwest wind Carried down stream The peal of bells White towers Weialala leia Wallala leialala“Trams and dusty trees.Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.”“My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart Under my feet. After the eventHe wept. He promised ‘a new start’.I made no comment. What should I resent?”“On Margate Sands.I can connectNothing with nothing.The broken fingernails of dirty hands.My people humble people who expect Nothing.”o n t e n t sla laTo Carthage then I came Burning burning burning burning O Lord Thou pluckest me out O Lord Thou pluckest burning4.Death by water.Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell And the profit and loss.A 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.Gentile or JewO you who turn the wheel and look to windward,Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.o n t e n t s5.What the thunder said.After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the cryingPrison and palace and reverberationOf thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patienceHere is no water but only rockRock and no water and the sandy roadThe road winding above among the mountainsWhich are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sandIf there were only water amongst the rockDead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rainThere is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked housesIf there were water And no rockIf there were rock And also water And water A springA pool among the rockIf there were the sound of water only Not the cicadaAnd dry grass singingBut sound of water over a rockWhere the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no watero n t e n t sWho 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 roadThere is always another one walking beside you Gliding 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?What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentationWho are those hooded hordes swarmingOver endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountainsCracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towersJerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London UnrealA 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 wingsAnd crawled head downward down a blackened wallAnd upside down in air were towersTolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hoursAnd 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 chapelThere is the empty chapel, only the wind’s 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 ricoIn a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rainGanga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant.The jungle crouched, humped in silence.Then spoke the thunder DADatta: what have we given?My friend, blood shaking my heartThe awful daring of a moment’s surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existedo n t e n t sWhich is not to be found in our obituariesOr in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms DADayadhvam: I have heard the keyTurn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison Only at nightfall, aetherial rumoursRevive for a moment a broken Coriolanus DADamyata: The boat respondedGaily, to the hand expert with sail and oarThe sea was calm, your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling handsI sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order?London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affinaQuando fiam ceu chelidon - O swallow swallow Le Prince d’Aquitaine a la tour abolieThese fragments I have shored against my ruinsWhy then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe.Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.Shantih shantih shantiho n t e n t sNOTES ON “THE WASTE LAND”Not only the title, but the plan and a good deal of the inci-dental symbolism of the poem were suggested by Miss Jessie L. Weston’s book on the Grail legend: From Ritual to Ro-mance. Indeed, so deeply am I indebted, Miss Weston’s book will elucidate the difficulties of the poem much better than my notes can do; and I recommend it (apart from the great interest of the book itself ) to any who think such elucidation of the poem worth the trouble. To another work of anthro-pology I am indebted in general, one which has influenced our generation profoundly; I mean The Golden Bough; I have used especially the two volumes Adonis, Attis, Osiris.Anyone who is acquainted with these works will immediately recognise in the poem certain references to vegetation cer-emonies.o n t e n t so n t e n t so n t e n t so n t e n t so n t e n t so n t e n t so n t e n t so n t e n t s。

荒原4

而进入旋涡。
Gentile or Jew
犹太或非犹太人呵，
(The Jews in this case mean the faithful and the gentiles those who rejected God.)
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
•
Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, 扶里巴斯，那腓尼人，死了已两星期，
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swell 忘记了水鸥的鸣叫，深海的浪涛， And the profit and loss. 利润和损失。
The Waste Land
T.S. Eliot (1888–1965).
DEATH BY WATER
第四章《水里的死亡》仅10行，告诫人们，虽然人们渴望水，但是水同样可以使人们死亡。人在欲海中死去，死去后忘掉生前的一切，让他静静地在死亡的欲海中反思。艾略特笔下的海既是情欲的象征，它夺去了人的生命，又是炼狱，它让人认清自己生前的罪恶。实际上艾略特是要现代人正视自己的罪恶，洗涮自己的灵魂。Leabharlann 你们转动轮盘和观望风向的，
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
想想他，也曾象你们一样漂亮而高大。
A current under sea
海底的一股洋流
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
低语着啄他的骨头。就在一起一落时光
He passed the stages of his age and youth

T.S.Eliot_The_Waste_Land_艾略特《荒原》赏析 2

I will show you fear in a handfull of dust. Frish weht der Wind Der Heimat zu Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du? 'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; They called me the hyacinth girl.' --Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
I. Burial of the Dead
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
westoppedhofgarten四月最残忍从死了的土地滋生丁香混杂着回忆和欲望让春雨冬天保我们温暖把大地埋在忘怀的雪里使干了的球茎得一点点生命
The Waste Land
T . S . Eliot
Brief introduction

The Waste Land--中英文对照(赵萝蕤译)

Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, 10
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
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, 20
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
The Waste Land--Thomas Stearns Eliot (1888-1965)
"NAM Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse
oculis meis vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum
illi pueri dicerunt:
Sebulla pe theleis;

译文比较_艾略特：荒原

NoteNot only the title, but the plan and a good deal of the incidental symbolism of the poem were suggested by Miss Jessie L. Weston's book on the Grail legend: From Ritual to Romance (Macmillan). Indeed, so deeply am I indebted, Miss Weston's book will elucidate the difficulties of the poem much better than my notes can do; and I recommend it (apart from the great interest of the book itself) to any who think such elucidation of the poem worth the trouble. To another work of anthropology I am indebted in general, one which has influenced our generation profoundly; I mean The Golden Bough; I have used especially the two volumes Adonis, Attis, Osiris. Anyone who is acquainted with these works will immediately recognize in the poem certain references to vegetation ceremonies.I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEADLine 20 Cf. Ezekiel 2:7.23. Cf. Ecclesiastes 12:5.31. V. Tristan und Isolde, i, verses 5–8.42. Id. iii, verse 24.46. I am not familiar with the exact constitution of the Tarot pack of cards, from which I have obviously departed to suit my own convenience. The Hanged Man, a member of the traditional pack, fits my purpose in two ways: because he is associated in my mind with the Hanged God of Frazer, and because I associate him with the hooded figure in the passage of the disciples to Emmaus in Part V. The Phoenician Sailor and the Merchant appear later; also the 'crowds of people', and Death by Water is executed in Part IV. The Man with Three Staves (an authentic member of the Tarot pack) I associate, quite arbitrarily, with the Fisher King himself.60. Cf. Baudelaire:Fourmillante cité, cité pleine de rêves,Où le spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant.63. Cf. Inferno, iii. 55–7:si lunga trattadi gente, ch'io non avrei mai credutoche morte tanta n'avesse disfatta.64. Cf. Inferno, iv. 25–27:Quivi, secondo che per ascoltare,non avea pianto, ma' che di sospiri,che l'aura eterna facevan tremare.68. A phenomenon which I have often noticed.74. Cf. the Dirge in Webster's White Devil.76. V. Baudelaire, Preface to Fleurs du Mal.II. A GAME OF CHESS77. Cf. Antony and Cleopatra, II. ii. 190.92. Laquearia. V. Aeneid, I. 726:dependent lychni laquearibus aureis incensi, et noctem flammis funalia vincunt.98. Sylvan scene. V. Milton, Paradise Lost, iv. 140.99. V. Ovid, Metamorphoses, vi, Philomela.100. Cf. Part III, l. 204.115. Cf. Part III, l. 195.118. Cf. Webster: 'Is the wind in that door still?'126. Cf. Part I, l. 37, 48.138. Cf. the game of chess in Middleton's Women beware Women.III. THE FIRE SERMON176. V. Spenser, Prothalamion.192. Cf. The Tempest, I. ii.196. Cf. Marvell, To His Coy Mistress.197. Cf. Day, Parliament of Bees:When of the sudden, listening, you shall hear,A noise of horns and hunting, which shall bringActaeon to Diana in the spring,Where all shall see her naked skin...199. I do not know the origin of the ballad from which these lines are taken: it was reported to me from Sydney, Australia.202. V. Verlaine, Parsifal.210. The currants were quoted at a price 'carriage and insurance free to London'; and the Bill of Lading, etc., were to be handed to the buyer upon payment of the sight draft.218. Tiresias, although a mere spectator and not indeeda 'character', is yet the most important personage in the poem, uniting all the rest. Just as the one-eyed merchant, seller of currants, melts into the Phoenician Sailor, and the latter is not wholly distinct from Ferdinand Prince of Naples, so all the women are one woman, and the two sexes meet in Tiresias. What Tiresiassees, in fact, is the substance of the poem. The whole passage from Ovid is of great anthropological interest:...Cum Iunone iocos et 'maior vestra profecto estQuam, quae contingit maribus', dixisse, 'voluptas.'Illa negat; placuit quae sit sententia doctiQuaerere Tiresiae: venus huic erat utraque nota.Nam duo magnorum viridi coeuntia silvaCorpora serpentum baculi violaverat ictuDeque viro factus, mirabile, femina septemEgerat autumnos; octavo rursus eosdemVidit et 'est vestrae si tanta potentia plagae',Dixit 'ut auctoris sortem in contraria mutet,Nunc quoque vos feriam!' percussis anguibus isdemForma prior rediit genetivaque venit imago.Arbiter hic igitur sumptus de lite iocosaDicta Iovis firmat; gravius Saturnia iustoNec pro materia fertur doluisse suiqueIudicis aeterna damnavit lumina nocte,At pater omnipotens (neque enim licet inrita cuiquamFacta dei fecisse deo) pro lumine ademptoScire futura dedit poenamque levavit honore.221. This may not appear as exact as Sappho's lines, but I had inmind the 'longshore' or 'dory' fisherman, who returns at nightfall.253. V. Goldsmith, the song in The Vicar of Wakefield.257. V. The Tempest, as above.264. The interior of St. Magnus Martyr is to my mind one of thefinest among Wren's interiors. See The Proposed Demolition ofNineteen City Churches (P. S. King & Son, Ltd.).266. The Song of the (three) Thames-daughters begins here. From line292 to 306 inclusive they speak in turn. V. Götterdammerung, III.i: The Rhine-daughters.279. V. Froude, Elizabeth, vol. I, ch. iv, letter of De Quadra toPhilip of Spain:In the afternoon we were in a barge, watching the games on the river. (The queen) was alone with Lord Robert and myself on the poop, when they began to talk nonsense, and went so far that Lord Robert at last said, as I was on the spot there was no reason why they should not be married if the queen pleased.293. Cf. Purgatorio, V. 133:'Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia;Siena mi fe', disfecemi Maremma.'307. V. St. Augustine's Confessions: 'to Carthage then I came, wherea cauldron of unholy loves sang all about mine ears'.308. The complete text of the Buddha's Fire Sermon (which corresponds in importance to the Sermon on the Mount) from which these words are taken,will be found translated in the late Henry Clarke Warren's Buddhism in Translation (Harvard Oriental Series). Mr. Warren was one of the great pioneers of Buddhist studies in the Occident.309. From St. Augustine's Confessions again. The collocation of these two representatives of eastern and western asceticism, as the culmination of this part of the poem, is not an accident.V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAIDIn the first part of Part V three themes are employed: the journey to Emmaus, the approach to the Chapel Perilous (see Miss Weston's book), and the present decay of eastern Europe.357. This is Turdus aonalaschkae pallasii, the hermit-thrush which I have heard in Quebec County. Chapman says (Handbook of Birds in Eastern North America) 'it is most at home in secluded woodland and thickety retreats.... Its notes are not remarkable for variety or volume, but in purity and sweetness of tone and exquisite modulation they are unequalled.' Its 'water-dripping song' is justly celebrated.360. The following lines were stimulated by the account of one of the Antarctic expeditions (I forget which, but I think one of Shackleton's): it was related that the party of explorers, at the extremity of their strength, had the constant delusion that there was one more member than could actually be counted.367–77. Cf. Hermann Hesse, Blick ins Chaos:Schon ist halb Europa, schon ist zumindest der halbe Osten Europasauf dem Wege zum Chaos, fährt betrunken im heiligen Wahn am Abgrundentlang und singt dazu, singt betrunken und hymnisch wie DmitriKaramasoff sang. Ueber diese Lieder lacht der Bürger beleidigt, derHeilige und Seher hört sie mit Tränen.401. 'Datta, dayadhvam, damyata' (Give, sympathize, control). Thefable of the meaning of the Thunder is found in the Brihadaranyaka--Upanishad, 5, 1. A translation is found in Deussen's SechzigUpanishads des Veda, p. 489. 407. Cf. Webster, The White Devil, V, vi:...they'll remarryEre the worm pierce your winding-sheet, ere the spiderMake a thin curtain for your epitaphs.411. Cf. Inferno, xxxiii. 46:ed io sentii chiavar l'uscio di sottoall'orribile torre.Also F. H. Bradley, Appearance and Reality, p. 346:My external sensations are no less private to myself than are my thoughts or my feelings. In either case my experience falls within my own circle, a circle closed on the outside; and, with all its elements alike, every sphere is opaque to the others which surround it.... In brief, regarded as an existence which appears in a soul, the whole world for each is peculiar and private to that soul.424. V. Weston, From Ritual to Romance; chapter on the Fisher King.427. V. Purgatorio, xxvi. 148.'Ara vos prec per aquella valor'que vos guida al som de l'escalina,'sovegna vos a temps de ma dolor.'Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina.428. V. Pervigilium Veneris. Cf. Philomela in Parts II and III.429. V. Gerard de Nerval, Sonnet El Desdichado. 431. V. Kyd's Spanish Tragedy.433. Shantih. Repeated as here, a formal ending to an Upanishad. 'The Peace which passeth understanding' is a feeble translation of the conduct of this word.。

荒原杜国清译

荒原是现代诗人艾略特创作的长诗。

以下是杜国清译的荒原：
在棕黄的地平线上，
在茫茫的荒原，
我望见一个汉子，
在黄昏中步行。

他走过草原，荒原，
走进了一片荒凉，
他的脚步，停住了，
在暗淡的灯光下。

他望着远方，
他的脸上带着悲伤，
他的心中充满了忧愁，
他的眼睛里充满了泪水。

他望见了荒原，
他望见了未来的空虚，
他望见了人生的虚无，
他望见了自己的死亡。

他的脚步，疲倦而沉重，
他走过了多少路程？
他走过了多少悲哀？
他走过了多少痛苦？
他望见了生命的尽头，
他望见了死亡的来临，
他望见了岁月的流逝，
他望见了自己的终结。

在棕黄的地平线上，
在茫茫的荒原，
我望见一个汉子，
在黄昏中步行。

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(一)艾略特是中国现代朦胧诗歌的鼻祖在网上，很多对中国现代诗歌(包括朦胧诗歌)起源和继承的评论是似是而非的。

这可能是由于一些国内不懂外文的评论家的错误导向所致，也有可能是由于自己就没有理解好中国的现代诗歌，而混枭了自己的观点，也误人子弟。

中国的现代诗歌，究其源泉是由于五四时期由胡适等人发起的白话文运动，白话诗也就应运产生。

中国早期的现代诗歌应该是继承于欧洲而不是美洲。

这得益于一些留学欧洲学人的推荐和传播。

从中很少看到美洲惠特曼的影子，大概惠诗歌中的自然和平民的形象和这些留学欧洲的没落贵族的口吻不太合适所致。

很多人把这几个人归结为现代朦胧诗歌的起源。

其实是不当的。

这时候的诗歌还只能是现代诗歌而不是朦胧诗歌，当然，相对于旧体诗歌意象和词汇的运用已经有了朦胧的感觉。

中国诗歌在七十年代末八十年代初期，有一个特别辉煌的复兴时期。

这期间杰出的诗人有北岛，舒婷等。

在八十年代的中末期，中国诗坛终于迎来了大爆炸的时期。

所写的诗歌讦曲骜牙，常人难以读懂。

这就是后来广被非议的现代朦胧诗。

为什么称为现代朦胧诗？这是为了区别于以唐朝李商隐为代表的古体朦胧诗歌。

中国的现代朦胧诗直接继承于艾略特，Pound等人的诗风,摈弃了近代诗歌徐志摩等人所提倡的维多利亚的模式。

(EzraPound是和T.S.Eliot同一时代的诗人。

他有一首特别著名的诗【在一个地铁站口】，短短两句，却成为美国60年代诗歌革命的启动之作)。

对艾略特,国内的文学史书鲜有介绍，他们多数倾向于介绍19世纪末和20世纪初的文学大家和诗人。

记得有一本人民文学出版社出版的【外国诗】，好象是收录了艾略特的【荒原】，没有什么介绍，似乎国内对他的地位不是特别的推崇。

因此，不揣简陋，在此将T.S.Eliout介绍一番，并将其长诗“The Waste Land" 翻译一部份。

(二)T.S.Eliot简介在诗歌和文学评论上，作为一个诗人，Thomas Stearns Eliot占据着独一无二的地位。

他不仅仅是靠写作来表现自己的情感，对定义所谓的现代派的风格和趣味也有着莫大的帮助。

他们摈弃了叙述性的方式及贵族式的维多里压风格，代之于精确聚焦而又让人惊奇的意象来表达，那种圆滑的充满诱惑而又有讽刺韵味的语言对美国现代诗歌有着巨大的影响。

当然这种影响不是直接正式的而是从思想和哲学的高度来影响的。

他的作品中弥漫着一种寻求人生意义的味道；这种对意义的寻求使得他在1922年创作了形容现代文化为一种荒原的著名作品：“The Waste Land."在此诗中，他把各种意象进行了对比排列：过去的高贵和现代的腐烂，远期和近期的文明，并用圣经的，神话的以及佛教的幻象去呼唤一个复杂焦灼而又脆弱的现代灵魂。

作为一战后表现文化危机的里程碑式的作品,Eliot在这首诗歌中采用的对精神的内视及在形式上的创新成为符号主义诗人们(是视觉艺术家和手工艺艺术家合而为一的人)的传统特征。

英国和美国都声称艾略特是他们国家文化的一部份。

1888年9月26日他生于St.Louis的一个书香世家，在Harvard University接受了他的本科和研究生教育，并于1915年移民英国，1927年获得公民身份。

在哈佛大学期间，他受反浪漫主义的人类学家，哲学家和美学家的影响较大，并撰写了博士论文去研究F.H. Bradley的”表象和现实“。

1908年后，他接触了法国的符号主义艺术,对其采用的幻象，潜意识及似是而非的语言倍加推崇，并把他们实践于自己的诗歌作品中。

搬到英国后，他继续他的诗人生涯，并开始写评论，散文，和戏剧，同时还再作编辑。

1948年他获得了Nobel Prize.【荒原】是艾略特最著名的一首长诗。

他是把他献给Erza Pound的，因为他帮他修改了手稿。

在诗歌中，他用典的范围极广，从Shakespear，到但丁，波特莱尔，瓦格纳等。

还引用了佛经，民歌以及许多人类学家的作品。

在【荒原】中，他描写了处于精神和文化危机中的现代社会以及从现代社会中寻求到的支离破碎的经验和相对稳定的文化遗产的的冲突。

从这方面说，【荒原】是一部寻求精神上的家园的诗歌，并使得艾略特斐声中外。

说到【荒原】，就不能不说说其技术上的创新。

断句的技巧让人感叹，并故意地运用了一些承转起合的段落和语言以期读者自己想象从而把这些话所隐含的意思构成一个整体的图画。

在诗歌中，他摈弃了直来直去的写法，采用了突然的断句并在此加入一些完全迥异的场景的介绍或者解释，可能是优美的描写突然转到一种酒吧式的交谈，可能是从爱丽莎白的古典突然转到当代的场景，也有可能是从正式的书面语言转到了口语。

这些帮助他表现了诗歌所要表现的文化的不完整性，使得他可以探讨符号主义或者幻象所承载的意义上的重担--吸引注意力到其本身，并昭示现代艺术家的自我表现和自我意识。

(三)【荒原】(TheWasteLand)译文【荒原】共有五节，分别是：I. The Burial of The DeadII. A Game of ChessIII. The Fire SermonIV. Death by WaterV. What the Thunder SaidNAMsibyllam quidem Cuimis egō ipse oculis meis vidi in ampulla pendere，et cum illi pueri dicerent:∑ιβνλλατιθελειζ; repondebat illa:áπóθανεινθελ ω."（“是的，我自己亲眼看见古米的西比尔吊在一个笼子里。

孩子们在问她：西比尔，你要什么的时候，她回答说，我要死。

”）For Ezra Poundil miglior fabbro.（献给埃兹拉?庞德•最卓越的匠人）艾略特《荒原The Waste Land.》（原文及译本）作者: T.S. Eliot (1888–1965). The Waste Land. 1922.The Waste LandI. THE BURIAL OF THE DEADAPRIL is the cruellest month, breedingLilacs out of the dead land, mixingMemory and desire, stirringDull roots with spring rain.Winter kept us warm, covering 5Earth in forgetful snow, feedingA little life with dried tubers.Summer surprised us, coming over the StarnbergerseeWith a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, 10And drank coffee, and talked foran hour.Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' au s Litauen, echt deutsch.And when we were children, stay ing at the archduke's,My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,And I was frightened. He said, Marie, 15Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.In the mountains, there you feel free.I read, much of the night, and g o south in the winter.What are the roots that clutch, what branches growOut of this stony rubbish? Son o f man, 20You cannot say, or guess, for yo u know onlyA heap of broken images, where the sun beats,And the dead tree gives no shelt er, the cricket no relief,And the dry stone no sound of water. OnlyThere is shadow under this red rock, 25(Come in under the shadow of t his red rock),And I will show you something different from eitherYour shadow at morning striding behind youOr your shadow at evening risin g to meet you;I will show you fear in a handfu l of dust. 30Frisch weht der WindDer Heimat zu.Mein Irisch Kind,Wo weilest du?'You gave me hyacinths first a y ear ago; 35'They called me the hyacinth girl. '—Yet when we came back, late, f rom the Hyacinth garden,Your arms full, and your hair we t, I could notSpeak, and my eyes failed, I was neitherLiving nor dead, and I knew not hing, 40Looking into the heart of light, t he silence.Od' und leer das Meer.Madame Sosostris, famous clairv oyante,Had a bad cold, neverthelessIs known to be the wisest woma n in Europe, 45With a wicked pack of cards. He re, said she,Is your card, the drowned Phoen ician Sailor,(Those are pearls that were his e yes. Look!)Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,The lady of situations. 50Here is the man with three stav es, and here the Wheel,And here is the one-eyed mercha nt, and this card,Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,Which I am forbidden to see. I do not findThe Hanged Man. Fear death by water. 55I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, Tell her I bring the horoscope m yself:One must be so careful these da ys.Unreal City, 60Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,A crowd flowed over London Bri dge, so many,I had not thought death had un done so many.Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,And each man fixed his eyes bef ore his feet. 65Flowed up the hill and down Ki ng William Street,To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hoursWith a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.There I saw one I knew, and sto pped him, crying 'Stetson!'You who were with me in the s hips at Mylae! 70'That corpse you planted last yea r in your garden,'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?'Or has the sudden frost disturbe d its bed?'Oh keep the Dog far hence, that 's friend to men,'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again! 75'You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon se mblable,—mon frère!'II. A GAME OF CHESSTHE Chair she sat in, like a bur nished throne,Glowed on the marble, where th e glassHeld up by standards wrought w ith fruited vinesFrom which a golden Cupidon p eeped out 80(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)Doubled the flames of sevenbran ched candelabraReflecting light upon the table asThe glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,From satin cases poured in rich profusion; 85In vials of ivory and coloured gl assUnstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,Unguent, powdered, or liquid—tr oubled, confusedAnd drowned the sense in odour s; stirred by the airThat freshened from the window, these ascended 90In fattening the prolonged candle -flames,Flung their smoke into the laque aria,Stirring the pattern on the coffer ed ceiling.Huge sea-wood fed with copper Burned green and orange, frame d by the coloured stone, 95In which sad light a carvèd dolp hin swam.Above the antique mantel was di splayedAs though a window gave upon the sylvan sceneThe change of Philomel, by the barbarous kingSo rudely forced; yet there the n ightingale 100Filled all the desert with inviolab le voiceAnd still she cried, and still the world pursues,'Jug Jug' to dirty ears.And other withered stumps of ti meWere told upon the walls; starin g forms 105Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.Footsteps shuffled on the stair. Under the firelight, under the br ush, her hairSpread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still. 110'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?'I never know what you are thin king. Think.'I think we are in rats' alley 115 Where the dead men lost their b ones.'What is that noise?'The wind under the door.'What is that noise now? What i s the wind doing?'Nothing again nothing. 120'Do'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember'Nothing?'I rememberThose are pearls that were his e yes. 125'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'ButO O O O that Shakespeherian R ag—It's so elegantSo intelligent 130'What shall I do now? What shal l I do?''I shall rush out as I am, and w alk the street'With my hair down, so. What s hall we do to-morrow?'What shall we ever do?'The hot water at ten. 135And if it rains, a closed car at f our.And we shall play a game of che ss,Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.When Lil's husband got demobbe d, I said—I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself, 140HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.He'll want to know what you do ne with that money he gave youTo get yourself some teeth. He d id, I was there.You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, 145He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,He's been in the army four year s, he wants a good time,And if you don't give it him, the re's others will, I said. Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said. 150Then I'll know who to thank, sh e said, and give me a straight lo ok.HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.Others can pick and choose if yo u can't.But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling. 155You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.(And her only thirty-one.)I can't help it, she said, pullinga long face,It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.(She's had five already, and near ly died of young George.) 160 The chemist said it would be alr ight, but I've never been the sa me.You are a proper fool, I said. Well, if Albert won't leave you al one, there it is, I said,What you get married for if you don't want children?HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME 165Well, that Sunday Albert was ho me, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Go onight May. Goonight. 170Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.Good night, ladies, good night, s weet ladies, good night, good nig ht.III. THE FIRE SERMONTHE river's tent is broken: the l ast fingers of leafClutch and sink into the wet ban k. The windCrosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. 175 Sweet Thames, run softly, till I e nd my song.The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard bo xes, cigarette endsOr other testimony of summer n ights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering h eirs of city directors; 180 Departed, have left no addresses.By the waters of Leman I sat do wn and wept...Sweet Thames, run softly till I e nd my song,Sweet Thames, run softly, for I s peak not loud or long.But at my back in a cold blast I hear 185The rattle of the bones, and chu ckle spread from ear to ear.A rat crept softly through the ve getationDragging its slimy belly on the b ankWhile I was fishing in the dull c analOn a winter evening round behi nd the gashouse 190Musing upon the king my brothe r's wreckAnd on the king my father's dea th before him. White bodies naked on the low damp groundAnd bones cast in a little low dr y garret,Rattled by the rat's foot only, ye ar to year. 195But at my back from time to ti me I hearThe sound of horns and motors, which shall bringSweeney to Mrs. Porter in the s pring.O the moon shone bright on Mr s. PorterAnd on her daughter 200They wash their feet in soda wat erEt, O ces voix d'enfants, chantan t dans la coupole!Twit twit twitJug jug jug jug jug jugSo rudely forc'd. 205TereuUnreal CityUnder the brown fog of a winter noonMr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merc hantUnshaven, with a pocket full of currants 210C.i.f. London: documents at sight,Asked me in demotic FrenchTo luncheon at the Cannon Stree t HotelFollowed by a weekend at the M etropole.At the violet hour, when the eye s and back 215Turn upward from the desk, whe n the human engine waitsLike a taxi throbbing waiting,I Tiresias, though blind, throbbin g between two lives,Old man with wrinkled female b reasts, can seeAt the violet hour, the evening h our that strives 220 Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,The typist home at teatime, clear s her breakfast, lightsHer stove, and lays out food in tins.Out of the window perilously spr eadHer drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays, 225On the divan are piled (at night her bed)Stockings, slippers, camisoles, an d stays.I Tiresias, old man with wrinkle d dugsPerceived the scene, and foretold the rest—I too awaited the expected guest. 230He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,One of the low on whom assura nce sitsAs a silk hat on a Bradford milli onaire.The time is now propitious, as h e guesses, 235The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,Endeavours to engage her in car essesWhich still are unreproved, if un desired.Flushed and decided, he assaultsat once;Exploring hands encounter no de fence; 240His vanity requires no response, And makes a welcome of indiffer ence.(And I Tiresias have foresuffered allEnacted on this same divan or b ed;I who have sat by Thebes below the wall 245And walked among the lowest of the dead.)Bestows on final patronising kiss,And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit...She turns and looks a moment i n the glass,Hardly aware of her departed lo ver; 250Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:'Well now that's done: and I'm g lad it's over.'When lovely woman stoops to fo lly andPaces about her room again, alo ne,She smoothes her hair with auto matic hand, 255And puts a record on the gramo phone.'This music crept by me upon th e waters'And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.O City city, I can sometimes hea rBeside a public bar in Lower Th ames Street, 260The pleasant whining of a mand olineAnd a clatter and a chatter from withinWhere fishmen lounge at noon: where the wallsOf Magnus Martyr hold Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold. 265The river sweatsOil and tarThe barges driftWith the turning tideRed sails 270WideTo leeward, swing on the heavy spar.The barges washDrifting logsDown Greenwich reach 275 Past the Isle of Dogs.Weialala leiaWallala leialalaElizabeth and LeicesterBeating oars 280The stern was formedA gilded shellRed and goldThe brisk swellRippled both shores 285 Southwest windCarried down streamThe peal of bellsWhite towersWeialala leia 290Wallala leialala'Trams and dusty trees. Highbury bore me. Richmond an d KewUndid me. By Richmond I raised my knees Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.' 295'My feet are at Moorgate, and m y heartUnder my feet. After the event He wept. He promised "a new st art".I made no comment. What shoul d I resent?''On Margate Sands. 300I can connectNothing with nothing.The broken fingernails of dirty h ands.My people humble people who e xpectNothing.' 305la laTo Carthage then I came Burning burning burning burningO Lord Thou pluckest me outO Lord Thou pluckest 310 burningIV. DEATH BY WATERPHLEBAS the Phoenician, a fort night dead,Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swellAnd the profit and loss.A current under sea 315Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fellHe passed the stages of his age and youthEntering the whirlpool.Gentile or JewO you who turn the wheel and look to windward, 320 Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAIDAFTER the torchlight red on swe aty facesAfter the frosty silence in the ga rdensAfter the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying 325Prison and place and reverberati onOf thunder of spring over distan t mountainsHe who was living is now dead We who were living are now dyi ngWith a little patience 330Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sand y roadThe road winding above among t he mountainsWhich are mountains of rock wit hout waterIf there were water we should st op and drink 335Amongst the rock one cannot sto p or thinkSweat is dry and feet are in the sandIf there were only water amongs t the rockDead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spitHere one can neither stand nor lie nor sit 340There is not even silence in the mountainsBut dry sterile thunder without r ainThere is not even solitude in the mountainsBut red sullen faces sneer and s narlFrom doors of mudcracked hous esIf there were water 345And no rockIf there were rockAnd also waterAnd waterA spring 350A pool among the rockIf there were the sound of water onlyNot the cicadaAnd dry grass singingBut sound of water over a rock 355Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine treesDrip drop drip drop drop drop dropBut there is no waterWho is the third who walks alw ays beside you?When I count, there are only yo u and I together 360But when I look ahead up the w hite roadThere is always another one wal king beside youGliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hoodedI do not know whether a man o r a woman—But who is that on the other s ide of you? 365What is that sound high in theairMurmur of maternal lamentationWho are those hooded hordes s warmingOver endless plains, stumbling in cracked earthRinged by the flat horizon only 370What is the city over the mount ainsCracks and reforms and bursts i n the violet airFalling towersJerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London 375UnrealA woman drew her long black h air out tightAnd fiddled whisper music on th ose stringsAnd bats with baby faces in the violet lightWhistled, and beat their wings 3 80And crawled head downward do wn a blackened wallAnd upside down in air were to wersTolling reminiscent bells, that ke pt the hoursAnd voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.In this decayed hole among the mountains 385In the faint moonlight, the grass is singingOver the tumbled graves, about t he chapelThere is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.It has no windows, and the doorswings,Dry bones can harm no one. 39 0Only a cock stood on the rooftre eCo co rico co co ricoIn a flash of lightning. Then a d amp gustBringing rainGanga was sunken, and the limp leaves 395Waited for rain, while the black cloudsGathered far distant, over Himav ant.The jungle crouched, humped in silence.Then spoke the thunderD A 400Datta: what have we given?My friend, blood shaking my hea rtThe awful daring of a moment's surrenderWhich an age of prudence can n ever retractBy this, and this only, we have existed 405Which is not to be found in our obituariesOr in memories draped by the b eneficent spiderOr under seals broken by the lea n solicitorIn our empty roomsD A 410Dayadhvam: I have heard the ke yTurn in the door once and turn once onlyWe think of the key, each in his prisonThinking of the key, each confirms a prisonOnly at nightfall, aetherial rumours 415Revive for a moment a broken C oriolanusD ADamyata: The boat responded Gaily, to the hand expert with s ail and oarThe sea was calm, your heart wo uld have responded 420Gaily, when invited, beating obed ientTo controlling handsI sat upon the shoreFishing, with the arid plain behi nd meShall I at least set my lands in order? 425London Bridge is falling down fa lling down falling downPoi s'ascose nel foco che gli affin aQuando fiam ceu chelidon—O sw allow swallowLe Prince d'Aquitaine àla tour a bolieThese fragments I have shored a gainst my ruins 430Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo 's mad againe.Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.Shantih shantih shantih-------------------------NOTESNot only the title, but the plan and a good deal of the incidenta lsymbolism of the poem were sug gested by Miss Jessie L. Weston' sbook on the Grail legend: From Ritual to Romance (Macmillan). Indeed, so deeply am I indebted, Miss Weston's book will elucida tethe difficulties of the poem muc h better than my notes can do; and Irecommend it (apart from the gr eat interest of the book itself) toany who think such elucidation of the poem worth the trouble. Toanother work of anthropology I am indebted in general, one whi ch hasinfluenced our generation profou ndly; I mean The Golden Bough; Ihave used especially the two vol umes Adonis, Attis, Osiris. Anyo newho is acquainted with these wo rks will immediately recognize in thepoem certain references to veget ation ceremonies.I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEADLine 20 Cf. Ezekiel 2:7.23. Cf. Ecclesiastes 12:5.31. V. Tristan und Isolde, i, vers es 5–8.42. Id. iii, verse 24.46. I am not familiar with the e xact constitution of the Tarot pa ckof cards, from which I have obvi ously departed to suit my own convenience. The Hanged Man, a member of the traditional pack, fitsmy purpose in two ways: becaus e he is associated in my mind w ith theHanged God of Frazer, and beca use I associate him with the hoo dedfigure in the passage of the disci ples to Emmaus in Part V. The Phoenician Sailor and the Merch ant appear later; also the 'crowd s ofpeople', and Death by Water is e xecuted in Part IV. The Man wit hThree Staves (an authentic mem ber of the Tarot pack) I associat e,quite arbitrarily, with the Fisher King himself. 60. Cf. Baudelaire:Fourmillante cité, citépleine de rêves,Oùle spectre en plein jour raccr oche le passant.63. Cf. Inferno, iii. 55–7:si lunga trattadi gente, ch'io non avrei mai cre dutoche morte tanta n'avesse disfatta.64. Cf. Inferno, iv. 25–27: Quivi, secondo che per ascoltare,non avea pianto, ma' che di sosp iri,che l'aura eterna facevan tremare.68. A phenomenon which I have often noticed.74. Cf. the Dirge in Webster's W hite Devil.76. V. Baudelaire, Preface to Fle urs du Mal.II. A GAME OF CHESS77. Cf. Antony and Cleopatra, II. ii. 190.92. Laquearia. V. Aeneid, I. 726:dependent lychni laquearibus aur eis incensi, et noctem flammis fu nalia vincunt.98. Sylvan scene. V. Milton, Para dise Lost, iv. 140.99. V. Ovid, Metamorphoses, vi, Philomela.100. Cf. Part III, l. 204.115. Cf. Part III, l. 195.118. Cf. Webster: 'Is the wind in that door still?'126. Cf. Part I, l. 37, 48.138. Cf. the game of chess in Mi ddleton's Women beware Women.III. THE FIRE SERMON176. V. Spenser, Prothalamion. 192. Cf. The Tempest, I. ii. 196. Cf. Marvell, To His Coy Mis tress.197. Cf. Day, Parliament of Bees:When of the sudden, listening, y ou shall hear,A noise of horns and hunting, w hich shall bringActaeon to Diana in the spring, Where all shall see her naked sk in...199. I do not know the origin of the ballad from which these lin esare taken: it was reported to me from Sydney, Australia.202. V. Verlaine, Parsifal.210. The currants were quoted a t a price 'carriage and insurancefree to London'; and the Bill of Lading, etc., were to be handed tothe buyer upon payment of the s ight draft.218. Tiresias, although a mere sp ectator and not indeeda 'character', is yet the most imp ortant personage in the poem, uniting all the rest. Just as the one-eyed merchant, seller of currants, melts into the Phoenici an Sailor, and the latter is notwholly distinct from Ferdinand P rince of Naples, so all the wome nare one woman, and the two sex es meet in Tiresias. What Tiresia ssees, in fact, is the substance of the poem. The whole passage fro mOvid is of great anthropological i nterest:...Cum Iunone iocos et 'maior ve stra profecto estQuam, quae contingit maribus', d ixisse, 'voluptas.'Illa negat; placuit quae sit sente ntia doctiQuaerere Tiresiae: venus huic era t utraque nota.Nam duo magnorum viridi coeun tia silvaCorpora serpentum baculi violave rat ictuDeque viro factus, mirabile, femi na septemEgerat autumnos; octavo rursus eosdemVidit et 'est vestrae si tanta pote ntia plagae',Dixit 'ut auctoris sortem in contr aria mutet,Nunc quoque vos feriam!' percus sis anguibus isdemForma prior rediit genetivaque v enit imago.Arbiter hic igitur sumptus de lite iocosaDicta Iovis firmat; gravius Saturn ia iustoNec pro materia fertur doluisse s uiqueIudicis aeterna damnavit lumina nocte, At pater omnipotens (neque eni m licet inrita cuiquamFacta dei fecisse deo) pro lumine ademptoScire futura dedit poenamque lev avit honore.221. This may not appear as exa ct as Sappho's lines, but I had i nmind the 'longshore' or 'dory' fis herman, who returns at nightfall.253. V. Goldsmith, the song in T he Vicar of Wakefield.257. V. The Tempest, as above.264. The interior of St. Magnus Martyr is to my mind one of thefinest among Wren's interiors. Se e The Proposed Demolition of Nineteen City Churches (P. S. Ki ng & Son, Ltd.).266. The Song of the (three) Th ames-daughters begins here. Fro m line292 to 306 inclusive they speak in turn. V. Götterdammerung, III.i: The Rhine-daughters.279. V. Froude, Elizabeth, vol. I, ch. iv, letter of De Quadra to Philip of Spain:In the afternoon we were in a b arge, watching the games on theriver. (The queen) was alone wit h Lord Robert and myself on th epoop, when they began to talk n onsense, and went so far that Lo rdRobert at last said, as I was on the spot there was no reason wh ythey should not be married if th e queen pleased.293. Cf. Purgatorio, V. 133:'Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia; Siena mi fe', disfecemi Maremma. '307. V. St. Augustine's Confessio ns: 'to Carthage then I came, wh erea cauldron of unholy loves sang all about mine ears'.308. The complete text of the B uddha's Fire Sermon (which corresponds in importance to the Sermon on the Mount) from w hichthese words are taken, will be fo und translated in the late HenryClarke Warren's Buddhism in Tr anslation (Harvard Oriental Serie s).Mr. Warren was one of the great pioneers of Buddhist studies in theOccident.309. From St. Augustine's Confes sions again. The collocation of these two representatives of east ern and western asceticism, as t heculmination of this part of the p oem, is not an accident.V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAIDIn the first part of Part V three themes are employed: the journe yto Emmaus, the approach to the Chapel Perilous (see Miss West on'sbook), and the present decay of eastern Europe.357. This is Turdus aonalaschkae pallasii, the hermit-thrush which Ihave heard in Quebec County. C hapman says (Handbook of Birds inEastern North America) 'it is mo st at home in secluded woodland andthickety retreats.... Its notes are。