by T. S. Eliot

"Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:
Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo."

I. 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.
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,                                  
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.
Oed' und leer das Meer.

   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.                                                
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,
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!                           
"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!"

II. A GAME OF CHESS

   The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out                                  
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid - troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended                         
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carved dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale                             
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
"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.                       

   "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.                     
                                                                           "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                                                         
"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,
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,                         
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS 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.                       
Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS 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.)              
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 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 ITS TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.                    
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

III. THE FIRE SERMON

   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;              
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                           
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                                                    
They wash their feet in soda water
Et O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

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                                
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                       
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.                                       
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;                                  
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"
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,                             
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                                                         
     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                                                      
     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                                                
          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.                                                      
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                                                    

burning

IV. 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 Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,                         
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

V. 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 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                                                  

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                              
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                                                               
   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
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
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
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.
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
Datta: 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
Dayadhvam: 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
Damyata: The boat responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar                           
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
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
Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina
Quando fiam ceu chelidon - O swallow swallow
Le Prince d'Aquitaine a la tour abolie                       
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
                           Shantih    shantih    shantih

NOTES ON "THE WASTE LAND"

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: From Ritual to Romance (Macmillan).<1> 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 recognise in the poem certain references to vegetation ceremonies.

<1> Macmillan Cambridge.

I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD

Line 20.  Cf.  Ezekiel 2:1.

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 cite;, cite; pleine de reves,
     Ou le spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant."

63.  Cf.  Inferno, iii.  55-7.

                                   "si lunga tratta
     di gente, ch'io non avrei mai creduto
     che morte tanta n'avesse disfatta."

64.  Cf.  Inferno, iv.  25-7:

     "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 CHESS

77.  Cf.  Antony and Cleopatra, II. ii., l. 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 SERMON

176.  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 bring
     "Actaeon 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.

Notes 196 and 197 were transposed in this and the Hogarth Press edition,
but have been corrected here.

210.  "Carriage and insurance free"] "cost, insurance and freight"-Editor.

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 sees, 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 est
     Quam, quae contingit maribus,' dixisse, 'voluptas.'
     Illa negat; placuit quae sit sententia docti
     Quaerere Tiresiae: venus huic erat utraque nota.
     Nam duo magnorum viridi coeuntia silva
     Corpora serpentum baculi violaverat ictu
     Deque viro factus, mirabile, femina septem
     Egerat autumnos; octavo rursus eosdem
     Vidit et 'est vestrae si tanta potentia plagae,'
     Dixit 'ut auctoris sortem in contraria mutet,
     Nunc quoque vos feriam!' percussis anguibus isdem
     Forma prior rediit genetivaque venit imago.
     Arbiter hic igitur sumptus de lite iocosa
     Dicta Iovis firmat; gravius Saturnia iusto
     Nec pro materia fertur doluisse suique
     Iudicis aeterna damnavit lumina nocte,
     At pater omnipotens (neque enim licet inrita cuiquam
     Facta dei fecisse deo) pro lumine adempto
     Scire futura dedit poenamque levavit honore.

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.

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
the finest 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.
From line 292 to 306 inclusive they speak in turn.
V.  Gutterdsammerung, 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 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,
where a 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 SAID

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.

357.  This is Turdus aonalaschkae pallasii, the hermit-thrush
which I have heard in Quebec County.  Chapman says (Handbook of
Birds of 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 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."

402.  "Datta, dayadhvam, damyata" (Give, sympathize,
control). The fable of the meaning of the Thunder is found
in the Brihadaranyaka-Upanishad, 5, 1.  A translation is found
in Deussen's Sechzig Upanishads des Veda, p.  489.

408.  Cf.  Webster, The White Devil, v.  vi:

                                                    ". . . they'll remarry
   Ere the worm pierce your winding-sheet, ere the spider
   Make a thin curtain for your epitaphs."

412.  Cf.  Inferno, xxxiii.  46:

          "ed io sentii chiavar l'uscio di sotto
          all'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."

425.  V. Weston, From Ritual to Romance; chapter on the Fisher King.

428.  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."

429.  V.  Pervigilium Veneris.  Cf.  Philomela in Parts II and III.

430.  V. Gerard de Nerval, Sonnet El Desdichado.

432.  V. Kyd's Spanish Tragedy.

434.  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.

End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Waste Land, by T. S. Eliot

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。
谢谢你。如果你看见伊奎通太太，
就说我亲自把星象图带过去：
这年头人得万事小心呵。

不真实的城，
在冬天早晨棕黄色的雾下，
一群人流过伦敦桥，呵，这么多
我没有想到死亡毁灭了这么多。
叹息，隔一会短短地嘘出来，
每个人的目光都盯着自己的脚。
流上小山，流下威廉王大街，
直到圣玛丽·乌尔诺教堂，在那里
大钟正沉沉桥着九点的最后一响。
那儿我遇到一个熟人，喊住他道：
“史太森！你记得我们在麦来船上！
去年你种在你的花园里的尸首，
它发芽了吗？今年能开花吗？
还是突然霜冻搅乱了它的花床？
哦，千万把狗撵开，那是人类之友，
不然他会用爪子又把它掘出来！
你呀，伪善的读者——我的同类，我的兄弟！”


二、 一局棋戏


她所坐的椅子，在大理石上
象王座闪闪发光；有一面镜子，
镜台镂刻着结葡萄的藤蔓，
金黄的小爱神偷偷向外窥探，
（还有一个把眼睛藏在翅膀下）
把七枝蜡的烛台的火焰
加倍反射到桌上；她的珠宝
从缎套倾泻出的灿烂光泽，
正好升起来和那反光相汇合。
在开盖的象牙瓶和五彩玻璃瓶里
暗藏着她那怪异的合成香料，
有油膏、敷粉或汁液——以违乱神智，
并把感官淹没在奇香中；不过
受到窗外的新鲜空气的搅动，
它们上升而把瘦长的烛火加宽，
又把烛烟投到雕漆的梁间，
使屋顶镶板的图案模糊了。
巨大的木器镶满了黄铜
闪着青绿和橘黄，有彩石围着，
在幽光里游着一只浮雕的海豚。
好象推窗看到的田园景色，
在古老的壁炉架上展示出
菲罗美的变形，是被昏王的粗暴
逼成的呵；可是那儿有夜莺的
神圣不可侵犯的歌声充满了荒漠，
她还在啼叫，世界如今还在追逐，
“唧格，唧格”叫给脏耳朵听。
还有时光的其它残骸断梗
在墙上留着；凝视的人像倾着身，
倾着身，使关闭的屋子默默无声。
脚步在楼梯上慢慢移动着。
在火光下，刷子下，她的头发
播散出斑斑的火星
闪亮为语言，以后又猛地沉寂。

“我今晚情绪不好。呵，很坏。陪着我。
跟我说话吧。怎么不说呢？说呵。
你在想什么？什么呀？ 我从不知你想着什么。想。”

我想我们是在耗子洞里，
死人在这里丢了骨头。

“那是什么声音？”
是门洞下的风。
“那又是什么声音？风在干什么？”
虚空，还是虚空。
“你
什么也不知道？什么也没看见？什么
也不记得？”

我记得
那些明珠曾经是他的眼睛。
“你是活是死？你的头脑里什么也没有？”
　可是
呵呵呵呵那莎士比希亚小调——
这么文雅
这么聪明
“如今我做什么好？我做什么好？”
“我要这样冲出去，在大街上走，
披着头发，就这样。我们明天干什么？
我们究竟干什么？”
十点钟要热水。
若是下雨，四点钟要带篷的车。
我们将下一盘棋，
揉了难合的眼，等着叩门的一声。

丽尔的男人退伍的时候，我说——
我可是直截了当，我自己对她说的，
快走吧，到时候了
艾伯特要回来了，你得打扮一下。
他要问你他留下的那笔镶牙的钱
是怎么用的。他给时，我也在场。
把牙都拔掉吧，丽尔，换一副好的。
他说，看你那样子真叫人受不了。
连我也受不了，我说，你替艾伯特想想，
他当兵四年啦，他得找点乐趣，
如果你不给他，还有别人呢，我说。
呵，是吗，她说。差不多吧，我说。
那我知道该谢谁啦，她说，直看着我。
快走吧，到时候了
你不爱这种事也得顺着点，我说。
要是你不能，别人会来接你哩。
等艾伯特跑了，可别怪我没说到。
你也不害臊，我说，弄得这么老相。
（论年纪她才三十一岁）。
没有法子，她说，愁眉苦脸的，
是那药丸子打胎打的，她说。
（她已生了五个，小乔治几乎送了她的命。）
医生说就会好的，可是我大不如从前了。
你真是傻瓜，我说。
要是艾伯特不肯罢休，那怎么办，我说。
你不想生孩子又何必结婚？
快走吧，到时候了
对，那礼拜天艾伯特在家，做了熏火腿，
他们请我吃饭，要我乘热吃那鲜味——
快走吧，到时候了
快走吧，到时候了
晚安，比尔。晚安，娄。晚安，梅。晚安。
再见。晚安。晚安。
晚安，夫人们，晚安，亲爱的，晚安，晚安。




三、火的说教


河边缺少了似帐篷的遮盖，树叶最后的手指
没抓住什么而飘落到潮湿的岸上。风
掠过棕黄的大地，无声的。仙女都走了。
温柔的泰晤士，轻轻地流，等我唱完我的歌。
河上不再漂着空瓶子，裹夹肉面包的纸，
绸手绢，硬纸盒子，吸剩的香烟头，
或夏夜的其它见证。仙女都走了。
还有她们的朋友，公司大亨的公子哥们，
走了，也没有留下地址。
在莱芒湖边我坐下来哭泣……
温柔的泰晤士，轻轻地流，等我唱完我的歌。
温柔的泰晤士，轻轻地流吧，我不会大声，也说不多。
可是在我背后的冷风中，我听见
白骨在碰撞，得意的笑声从耳边传到耳边。
一只老鼠悄悄爬过了草丛 把它湿粘的肚子拖过河岸，
而我坐在冬日黄昏的煤气厂后，
对着污滞的河水垂钓，
沉思着我的王兄在海上的遭难。
和在他以前我的父王的死亡。
在低湿的地上裸露着白尸体，
白骨抛弃在干燥低矮的小阁楼上，
被耗子的脚拨来拨去的，年复一年。
然而在我的背后我不时地听见
汽车和喇叭的声音，是它带来了
斯温尼在春天会见鲍特太太。
呵，月光在鲍特太太身上照耀
也在她女儿身上照耀
她们在苏打水里洗脚
哦，听童男女们的歌声，在教堂的圆顶下！

嘁喳嘁喳
唧格、唧格、唧格，
逼得这么粗暴。
特鲁

不真实的城
在冬日正午的棕黄色雾下
尤金尼迪先生，斯莫纳的商人
没有刮脸，口袋里塞着葡萄干
托运伦敦免费，见款即交的提单，
他讲着俗劣的法语邀请我
到加农街饭店去吃午餐
然后在大都会去度周末。

在紫色黄昏到来时，当眼睛和脊背
从写字台抬直起来，当人的机体
象出租汽车在悸动地等待，
我，提瑞西士，悸动在雌雄两种生命之间，
一个有着干瘪的女性乳房的老头，
尽管是瞎的，在这紫色的黄昏时刻
（它引动乡思，把水手从海上带回家）
却看见打字员下班回到家，洗了
早点的用具，生上炉火，摆出罐头食物。
窗外不牢靠地挂着
她晾干的内衣，染着夕阳的残辉，
沙发上（那是她夜间的床）摊着
长袜子，拖鞋，小背心，紧身胸衣。
我，有褶皱乳房的老人提瑞西士，
知道这一幕，并且预见了其余的——
我也在等待那盼望的客人。
他来了，那满脸酒刺的年青人，
小代理店的办事员，一种大胆的眼神，
自得的神气罩着这种下层人，
好象丝绒帽戴在勃莱弗暴发户的头上。
来的正是时机，他猜对了，
晚饭吃过，她厌腻而懒散，
他试着动手动脚上去温存，
虽然没受欢迎，也没有被责备。
兴奋而坚定，他立刻进攻，
探索的手没有遇到抗拒，
他的虚荣心也不需要反应，
冷漠对他就等于是欢迎。
（我，提瑞西士，早已忍受过了
在这沙发式床上演出的一切；
我在底比斯城墙下坐过的，
又曾在卑贱的死人群里走过。）
最后给了她恩赐的一吻，
摸索着走出去，楼梯上也没个灯亮……

她回头对镜照了一下，全没想到还有那个离去的情人；
心里模糊地闪过一个念头：
“那桩事总算完了；我很高兴。”
当美人儿做了失足的蠢事
而又在屋中来回踱着，孤独地，
她机械地用手理了理头发，
并拿一张唱片放上留声机。

“这音乐在水上从我的身边流过，”
流过河滨大街，直上维多利亚街。
哦，金融城，有时我能听见
在下泰晤士街的酒吧间旁，
一只四弦琴的悦耳的怨诉，
而酒吧间内渔贩子们正在歇午，
发出嘈杂的喧声，还有殉道堂：
在它那壁上是说不尽的
爱奥尼亚的皎洁与金色的辉煌。

油和沥青
洋溢在河上
随着浪起
游艇漂去
红帆
撑得宽宽的
顺风而下，在桅上摇摆。
游艇擦过
漂浮的大木
流过格林威治
流过大岛
喂呵啦啦　咧呀
哇啦啦　咧呀啦啦

伊丽莎白和莱斯特
划着浆
船尾好似
一只镀金的贝壳
红的和金黄的
活泼的水浪
泛到两岸
西南风
把钟声的清响
朝下流吹送
白的楼塔
喂呵啦啦　咧呀
哇啦啦　咧呀啦啦

“电车和覆满尘土的树，
海倍里给我生命。瑞曲蒙和克尤
把我毁掉。在瑞曲蒙我翘起腿
仰卧在小独木舟的船底。”
“我的脚在摩尔门，我的心
在我脚下。在那件事后
他哭了，发誓‘重新做人’。
我无话可说。这该怨什么？

“在马尔门的沙滩上。
我能联结起
虚空和虚空。
呵，脏手上的破碎指甲。
我们这些卑贱的人
无所期望。”
啦啦

于是我来到迦太基

烧呵烧呵烧呵烧呵
主呵，救我出来
主呵，救我

烧呵




四、水里的死亡

扶里巴斯，那腓尼基人，死了两星期，
他忘了海鸥的啼唤，深渊里的巨浪，
利润和损失。
　海底的一股洋流
低语着啄他的骨头。就在一起一落时光
他经历了苍老和青春的阶段
而进入旋涡。
　犹太或非犹太人呵，
你们转动轮盘和观望风向的，
想想他，也曾象你们一样漂亮而高大。


荒 原 （5）

五、雷的说话

在汗湿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

这里没有水只有岩石
有石而无水，只有砂石路
砂石路迂回在山岭中
山岭是石头的全没有水
要是有水我们会停下来啜饮
在岩石间怎能停下和思想
汗是干的，脚埋在沙子里
要是岩石间有水多么好
死山的嘴长着蛀牙，吐不出水来
人在这里不能站，不能躺，不能坐
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
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

那总是在你身边走的第三者是谁？
我算数时，只有你我两个人
可是我沿着白色的路朝前看
总看见有另一个人在你的身旁
裹着棕色的斗篷蒙着头巾走着
我不知道那是男人还是女人
——但在你身旁走的人是谁？

那高空中响着什么声音
好似慈母悲伤的低诉
那一群蒙面人是谁
涌过莽莽的平原，跌进干裂的土地
四周只是平坦的地平线
那山中是什么城
破裂，修好，又在紫红的空中崩毁
倒下的楼阁呵
耶路撒冷、雅典、亚历山大、
维也纳、伦敦
呵，不真实的

一个女人拉直她的黑长的头发
就在那丝弦上弹出低诉的乐音
蝙蝠带着婴儿脸在紫光里
呼啸着，拍着翅膀
头朝下，爬一面烟熏的墙
钟楼倒挂在半空中
敲着回忆的钟，报告时刻
还有歌声发自空水槽和枯井。

在山上这个倾坍的洞里
在淡淡的月光下，在教堂附近的
起伏的墓上，草在歌唱
那是空的教堂，只是风的家。
它没有窗户，门在摇晃，
干骨头伤害不了任何人。
只有一只公鸡站在屋脊上
咯咯叽咯，咯咯叽咯
在电闪中叫。随着一阵湿风
带来了雨。

恒河干涸，疲萎的叶子
等待下雨，乌黑的云
在远方集结，在喜马万山上。
林莽蜷伏着，沉默地蜷伏着。
于是雷说话了
哒
哒塔：我们给予了什么？
我的朋友，血激荡着我的心
一刹那果决献身的勇气
是一辈子的谨慎都赎不回的
我们靠这，仅仅靠这而活着
可是我们的讣告从不提它
它也不在善意的蜘蛛覆盖的记忆里
或在尖下巴律师打开的密封下
在我们的空室中
哒
哒亚德万：我听见钥匙
在门上转动一下，只转动了一下
我们想着钥匙，每人在囚室里，
想着钥匙，每人认定一间牢房
只在黄昏时，灵界的谣传
使失意的考瑞雷纳斯有一刻复苏
哒
哒密阿塔：小船欢欣地响应
那熟于使帆和摇桨的手
海是平静的，你的心灵受到邀请
会欢快地响应，听命于
那节制的手

　我坐在岸上
垂钓，背后是一片枯乾的荒野，
是否我至少把我的园地整理好？
伦敦桥崩塌了崩塌了崩塌了
于是他把自己隐入炼狱的火中
何时我能象燕子——呵燕子，燕子
阿基坦王子在塌毁的楼阁中
为了支撑我的荒墟，我捡起这些碎片
当然我要供给你。海若尼莫又疯了。
哒嗒。哒亚德万。哒密呵塔。
善蒂，善蒂，善蒂。