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diff --git a/old/1321-h/1321-h.htm b/old/1321-h/1321-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8aa6989 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1321-h/1321-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1424 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Waste Land, by T. S. Eliot</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left:20%; + margin-right:20% } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%; margin-top: 1em;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p { text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: .25em; + margin-bottom: .25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Waste Land, by T. S. Eliot</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Waste Land</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: T. S. Eliot</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: May, 1998 [eBook #1321]<br /> +[Most recently updated: November 18, 2017]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer and David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WASTE LAND ***</div> + +<h1>The Waste Land</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">By T. S. Eliot</h2> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">II. A GAME OF CHESS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">III. THE FIRE SERMON</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">IV. DEATH BY WATER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">NOTES ON “THE WASTE LAND”</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="letter"> +“Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis<br /> +vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:<br /> +Σίβυλλα τί +θέλεις; respondebat illa: +ἀποθανεῖν +θέλω.”<br /> +<br /> + <i>For Ezra Pound<br /> + il miglior fabbro</i> +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD</h2> + +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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, 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, + 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, 20 + 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. 30 + <i>Frisch weht der Wind + Der Heimat zu + Mein Irisch Kind, + Wo weilest du?</i> + “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, 40 + Looking into the heart of light, the silence. + <i>Oed’ und leer das Meer</i>. + + Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, + Had a bad cold, nevertheless + Is 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. 50 + 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, 60 + Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, + A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, + I had not thought death had undone so many. + Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, + And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. + 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! 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! + “You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!” +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>II. A GAME OF CHESS</h2> + +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, + Glowed on the marble, where the glass + Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines + From which a golden Cupidon peeped out 80 + (Another hid his eyes behind his wing) + Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra + Reflecting light upon the table as + The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, + From satin cases poured in rich profusion. + In vials of ivory and coloured glass + Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, + Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused + And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air + That freshened from the window, these ascended 90 + In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, + Flung their smoke into the laquearia, + Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling. + Huge sea-wood fed with copper + Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, + In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam. + Above the antique mantel was displayed + As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene + The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king + So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale 100 + Filled all the desert with inviolable voice + And 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 forms + Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. + Footsteps shuffled on the stair. + Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair + Spread out in fiery points + Glowed into words, then would be savagely still. 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 + Where 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 remember + Those 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 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 tomorrow? + “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, + 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, 140 + HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME + Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart. + He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you + To get yourself some teeth. 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. 150 + Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look. + 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 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.) 160 + The chemist said it would be all right, but I’ve never been the same. + You <i>are</i> 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 + Well, 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 TIME + HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME + Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. 170 + Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. + Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night. +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>III. THE FIRE SERMON</h2> + +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf + Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind + Crosses 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 ends + Or 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 + The 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 canal + On a winter evening round behind the gashouse 190 + 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 hear + The 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 daughter 200 + They wash their feet in soda water + <i>Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!</i> + + Twit twit twit + Jug jug jug jug jug jug + So rudely forc’d. + Tereu + + Unreal City + Under the brown fog of a winter noon + Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant + Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants 210 + C.i.f. London: documents at sight, + Asked me in demotic French + To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel + Followed by a weekend at the Metropole. + + At the violet hour, when the eyes and back + Turn 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 220 + 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 spread + Her 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. 230 + He, the young man carbuncular, arrives, + A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare, + One of the low on whom assurance sits + As 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; 240 + 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; 250 + 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 smooths her hair with automatic hand, + 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 hear + Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, 260 + The pleasant whining of a mandoline + And a clatter and a chatter from within + Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls + Of Magnus Martyr hold + Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold. + + The river sweats + Oil and tar + The barges drift + With the turning tide + Red sails 270 + Wide + To leeward, swing on the heavy spar. + The barges wash + Drifting logs + Down Greenwich reach + Past the Isle of Dogs. + Weialala leia + Wallala leialala + Elizabeth and Leicester + Beating oars 280 + The stern was formed + A gilded shell + Red and gold + The brisk swell + Rippled both shores + Southwest wind + Carried down stream + The peal of bells + White towers + Weialala leia 290 + 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 event + He wept. He promised ‘a new start’. + I made no comment. What should I resent?” + “On Margate Sands. 300 + I can connect + Nothing with nothing. + The broken fingernails of dirty hands. + My people humble people who expect + Nothing.” + la la + + To Carthage then I came + + Burning burning burning burning + O Lord Thou pluckest me out + O Lord Thou pluckest 310 + + burning +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>IV. DEATH BY WATER</h2> + +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 Jew + O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, 320 + Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you. +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID</h2> + +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + After the torchlight red on sweaty faces + After the frosty silence in the gardens + After the agony in stony places + The shouting and the crying + Prison and palace and reverberation + Of thunder of spring over distant mountains + He who was living is now dead + We who were living are now dying + With a little patience 330 + + Here is no water but only rock + Rock and no water and the sandy road + The road winding above among the mountains + Which 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 sand + If there were only water amongst the rock + Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit + Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit 340 + There is not even silence in the mountains + But dry sterile thunder without rain + There is not even solitude in the mountains + But red sullen faces sneer and snarl + From doors of mudcracked houses + If there were water + And no rock + If there were rock + And also water + And water 350 + A spring + 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 + Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees + Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop + But there is no water + + Who is the third who walks always beside you? + When I count, there are only you and I together 360 + But when I look ahead up the white road + There is always another one walking beside you + Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded + I do not know whether a man or a woman + —But who is that on the other side of you? + + What is that sound high in the air + Murmur of maternal lamentation + Who are those hooded hordes swarming + Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth + Ringed by the flat horizon only 370 + What is the city over the mountains + Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air + Falling towers + Jerusalem Athens Alexandria + Vienna London + Unreal + + A woman drew her long black hair out tight + And fiddled whisper music on those strings + And bats with baby faces in the violet light + Whistled, and beat their wings 380 + And crawled head downward down a blackened wall + And upside down in air were towers + Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours + And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells. + + In this decayed hole among the mountains + In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing + Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel + There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home. + It has no windows, and the door swings, + Dry bones can harm no one. 390 + Only a cock stood on the rooftree + Co co rico co co rico + In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust + Bringing rain + + Ganga 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 + DA 400 + <i>Datta:</i> what have we given? + My friend, blood shaking my heart + The awful daring of a moment’s surrender + Which an age of prudence can never retract + By this, and this only, we have existed + Which is not to be found in our obituaries + Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider + Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor + In our empty rooms + DA 410 + <i>Dayadhvam:</i> I have heard the key + Turn 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 rumours + Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus + DA + <i>Damyata:</i> The boat responded + Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar + The sea was calm, your heart would have responded 420 + Gaily, when invited, beating obedient + To controlling hands + + I 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 + <i>Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina + Quando fiam ceu chelidon</i> — O swallow swallow + <i>Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie</i> + These fragments I have shored against my ruins 430 + Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe. + Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. + Shantih shantih shantih + + Line 415 aetherial] aethereal + Line 428 ceu] uti— Editor +</pre> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>NOTES ON “THE WASTE LAND”</h2> + +<p> +Not 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: <i>From Ritual to Romance</i> (Macmillan, Cambridge) 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 <i>The Golden +Bough</i>; I have used especially the two volumes <i>Adonis, Attis, Osiris</i>. +Anyone who is acquainted with these works will immediately recognise in the +poem certain references to vegetation ceremonies. +</p> + +<h5>I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD</h5> + <p> + Line 20. Cf. <i>Ezekiel</i> 2:1. + </p> + <p> + 23. Cf. <i>Ecclesiastes</i> 12:5. + </p> + <p> + 31. V. <i>Tristan und Isolde</i>, i, verses 5-8. + </p> + <p> + 42. Id. iii, verse 24. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 60. Cf. Baudelaire: + </p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Fourmillante cité, cité; pleine de rêves,<br /> +Où le spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant.” +</p> + + <p> + 63. Cf. <i>Inferno</i>, iii. 55-7. + </p> + +<p class="poem"> + “si lunga tratta<br /> +di gente, ch’io non avrei mai creduto<br /> +che morte tanta n’avesse disfatta.” +</p> + + <p> + 64. Cf. <i>Inferno</i>, iv. 25-7: + </p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Quivi, secondo che per ascoltare,<br /> +“non avea pianto, ma’ che di sospiri,<br /> +“che l’aura eterna facevan tremare.” +</p> + + <p> + 68. A phenomenon which I have often noticed. + </p> + <p> + 74. Cf. the Dirge in Webster’s <i>White Devil</i>. + </p> + <p> + 76. V. Baudelaire, Preface to <i>Fleurs du Mal</i>. + </p> + +<h5>II. A GAME OF CHESS</h5> + + <p> + 77. Cf. <i>Antony and Cleopatra</i>, II. ii., l. 190. + </p> + <p> + 92. Laquearia. V. <i>Aeneid</i>, I. 726: + </p> + +<p class="poem"> +dependent lychni laquearibus aureis<br /> +incensi, et noctem flammis funalia vincunt. +</p> + + <p> + 98. Sylvan scene. V. Milton, <i>Paradise Lost</i>, iv. 140. + </p> + <p> + 99. V. Ovid, <i>Metamorphoses</i>, vi, Philomela. + </p> + <p> + 100. Cf. Part III, l. 204. + </p> + <p> + 115. Cf. Part III, l. 195. + </p> + <p> + 118. Cf. Webster: “Is the wind in that door still?” + </p> + <p> + 126. Cf. Part I, l. 37, 48. + </p> + <p> + 138. Cf. the game of chess in Middleton’s <i>Women beware Women</i>. + </p> + +<h5>III. THE FIRE SERMON</h5> + + <p> + 176. V. Spenser, <i>Prothalamion</i>. + </p> + <p> + 192. Cf. <i>The Tempest</i>, I. ii. + </p> + <p> + 196. Cf. Marvell, <i>To His Coy Mistress</i>. + </p> + <p> + 197. Cf. Day, <i>Parliament of Bees</i>: + </p> + +<p class="poem"> +“When of the sudden, listening, you shall hear,<br /> +“A noise of horns and hunting, which shall bring<br /> +“Actaeon to Diana in the spring,<br /> +“Where all shall see her naked skin . . .” +</p> + + <p> + 199. I do not know the origin of the ballad from which these lines + are taken: it was reported to me from Sydney, Australia. + </p> + <p> + 202. V. Verlaine, <i>Parsifal</i>. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 210. “Carriage and insurance free”] “cost, insurance and freight”-Editor. + </p> + <p> + 218. Tiresias, although a mere spectator and not indeed a “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 Tiresias <i>sees</i>, in fact, + is the substance of the poem. The whole passage from Ovid is + of great anthropological interest: + </p> + +<p class="poem"> +‘. . . Cum Iunone iocos et maior vestra profecto est<br /> +Quam, quae contingit maribus,’ dixisse, ‘voluptas.’<br /> +Illa negat; placuit quae sit sententia docti<br /> +Quaerere Tiresiae: venus huic erat utraque nota.<br /> +Nam duo magnorum viridi coeuntia silva<br /> +Corpora serpentum baculi violaverat ictu<br /> +Deque viro factus, mirabile, femina septem<br /> +Egerat autumnos; octavo rursus eosdem<br /> +Vidit et ‘est vestrae si tanta potentia plagae,’<br /> +Dixit ‘ut auctoris sortem in contraria mutet,<br /> +Nunc quoque vos feriam!’ percussis anguibus isdem<br /> +Forma prior rediit genetivaque venit imago.<br /> +Arbiter hic igitur sumptus de lite iocosa<br /> +Dicta Iovis firmat; gravius Saturnia iusto<br /> +Nec pro materia fertur doluisse suique<br /> +Iudicis aeterna damnavit lumina nocte,<br /> +At pater omnipotens (neque enim licet inrita cuiquam<br /> +Facta dei fecisse deo) pro lumine adempto<br /> +Scire futura dedit poenamque levavit honore. +</p> + + <p> + 221. This may not appear as exact as Sappho’s lines, but I had in mind + the “longshore” or “dory” fisherman, who returns at nightfall. + </p> + <p> + 253. V. Goldsmith, the song in <i>The Vicar of Wakefield</i>. + </p> + <p> + 257. V. <i>The Tempest</i>, as above. + </p> + <p> + 264. The interior of St. Magnus Martyr is to my mind one of + the finest among Wren’s interiors. See <i>The Proposed Demolition + of Nineteen City Churches</i> (P. S. King & Son, Ltd.). + </p> + <p> + 266. The Song of the (three) Thames-daughters begins here. + From line 292 to 306 inclusive they speak in turn. + V. <i>Götterdämmerung</i>, III. i: the Rhine-daughters. + </p> + <p> + 279. V. Froude, <i>Elizabeth</i>, Vol. I, ch. iv, letter of De Quadra + to Philip of Spain: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 293. Cf. <i>Purgatorio</i>, v. 133: + </p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia;<br /> +Siena mi fe’, disfecemi Maremma.” +</p> + + <p> + 307. V. St. Augustine’s <i>Confessions</i>: “to Carthage then I came, + where a cauldron of unholy loves sang all about mine ears.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Buddhism + in Translation</i> (Harvard Oriental Series). Mr. Warren was one + of the great pioneers of Buddhist studies in the Occident. + </p> + <p> + 309. From St. Augustine’s <i>Confessions</i> 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. + </p> + +<h5>V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID</h5> + + <p> + In 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. + </p> + <p> + 357. This is <i>Turdus aonalaschkae pallasii</i>, the hermit-thrush + which I have heard in Quebec County. Chapman says (<i>Handbook of + Birds of Eastern North America</i>) “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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>one more member</i> than could actually be counted. + </p> + <p> + 366-76. Cf. Hermann Hesse, <i>Blick ins Chaos</i>: + </p> + <p> + “Schon ist halb Europa, schon ist zumindest der halbe Osten Europas auf dem + Wege zum Chaos, fährt betrunken im heiligem Wahn am Abgrund entlang + und singt dazu, singt betrunken und hymnisch wie Dmitri Karamasoff sang. + Ueber diese Lieder lacht der Bürger beleidigt, der Heilige + und Seher hört sie mit Tränen.” + </p> + <p> + 401. “Datta, dayadhvam, damyata” (Give, sympathize, + control). The fable of the meaning of the Thunder is found + in the <i>Brihadaranyaka—Upanishad</i>, 5, 1. A translation is found + in Deussen’s <i>Sechzig Upanishads des Veda</i>, p. 489. + </p> + <p> + 407. Cf. Webster, <i>The White Devil</i>, v. vi: + </p> + +<p class="poem"> + “. . . they’ll remarry<br /> +Ere the worm pierce your winding-sheet, ere the spider<br /> +Make a thin curtain for your epitaphs.” +</p> + + <p> + 411. Cf. <i>Inferno</i>, xxxiii. 46: + </p> + +<p class="poem"> +“ed io sentii chiavar l’uscio di sotto<br /> +all’orribile torre.” +</p> + + <p> + Also F. H. Bradley, <i>Appearance and Reality</i>, p. 346: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 424. V. Weston, From <i>Ritual to Romance</i>; chapter on the Fisher King. + </p> + <p> + 427. V. <i>Purgatorio</i>, xxvi. 148. + </p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Ara vos prec per aquella valor<br /> +‘que vos guida al som de l’escalina,<br /> +‘sovegna vos a temps de ma dolor.’<br /> +Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina.” +</p> + + <p> + 428. V. <i>Pervigilium Veneris</i>. Cf. Philomela in Parts II and III. + </p> + <p> + 429. V. Gerard de Nerval, Sonnet <i>El Desdichado</i>. + </p> + <p> + 431. V. Kyd’s <i>Spanish Tragedy</i>. + </p> + <p> + 433. Shantih. Repeated as here, a formal ending to an Upanishad. + ‘The Peace which passeth understanding’ is a feeble translation + of the content of this word. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WASTE LAND ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 1321-h.htm or 1321-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/1/3/2/1321/</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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