The Waste Land
‘Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Σίβυλλα τί θέλεις; respondebat illa: άποθανεîν θέλω.’
For Ezra Pound
il miglior fabbro.
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 frère!”
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 carvéd 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 tonight. 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 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,
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 all right, 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 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,
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, aethereal 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 uti chelidon—O swallow swallow
Le Prince d’Aquitaine à 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
T. S. Eliot's "The Waste Land" is considered one of the most important poems of the 20th century, as well as a modernist masterpiece. A dramatic monologue that changes speakers, locations, and times throughout, "The Waste Land" draws on a dizzying array of literary, musical, historical, and popular cultural allusions in order to present the terror, futility, and alienation of modern life in the wake of World War I.
Summary
Dedicated to the poet Ezra Pound, "the better craftsman."
Section I: The Burial of the Dead
April is the most mean-spirited of all the months, with all those lilacs blooming out of the lifeless soil as a reminder of memory and love, while spring rain stirs up the painful past. Winter seemed warmer because the snow covered up the ground (and those memories), and life was like dried-up bulbs under the earth: sheltered, suppressed. Summer came all of a sudden, crossing Lake Starnbergersee in the rain. We sat in the sunny park, drinking coffee and talking. "I am not Russian at all; I come from Lithuania, a real German." When we were children, I stayed with my cousin the archduke, and he took me sledding, and I was scared. He said to me, "Marie, hold on tight," and down the hill we went. You feel a sense of freedom up there in the mountains. I read all night long, and I travel south when winter comes.
Can any roots or branches grow out of this stony, barren soil? As a human being, you cannot tell me, or even guess, because all you know are the broken symbols of modern life: a waste land where the sun is harsh and dead trees offer no shade, crickets no longer sing, and water does not run. But there is shade under this red rock (come stand in the shade under this red rock), and I will show you something other than your shadow cast behind you in the morning, or in front of you in the evening; I will show you how to fear the shadow of death. Fresh blows the wind to the homeland; my Irish child, where are you waiting? "You first expressed your love with a bouquet of hyacinths a year ago; people called me the hyacinth girl." And yet when we returned late from the garden, your arms full of flowers and your hair wet, I was speechless, I could hardly look at you, I felt empty, neither alive nor dead. I looked into your good heart and saw only silence. Desolate and empty is the sea.
Madame Sosostris, the famous fortune-teller, has a bad cold like any ordinary person, but is somehow still known as the wisest woman in Europe with her evil deck of tarot cards. "Here is your card," she said, "The drowned Phoenician Sailor, with his dead eyes like pearls, look!" She carried on, "Here is Belladonna, the beautiful and poisonous lady, the Madonna of the Rocks, that complex lady. Here is the man with three staffs, and here is the Wheel of Fortune, and here is the merchant looking sideways at us, and this blank card represents the burdens the merchant carries, which I am not allowed to see. I cannot find The Hanged Man card. You should be afraid of death by water. I see crowds of people in your future, walking aimlessly in circles. Thank you, the reading is over. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, let her know I'll come by with her horoscope myself; you can never be too careful these days."
In this unreal city, covered by the brown fog of winter mornings, a crowd of people streamed across the London Bridge. There were so many people; I did not realize just how many people were isolated, alienated, beyond reach. They sighed every now and then, and every man walked with his eyes cast down at his feet. They walked up the hill and down King William Street, to where the church bells at Saint Mary Woolnoth kept time, striking nine o'clock with a heavy sound. That's where I spotted someone I knew, and stopped him, calling out, "Stetson! You and I fought together at the battle of Mylae! That dead body you planted last year in your garden, is it growing yet? Will it bloom this year? Or did the sudden frost get to it? Keep out the dog, man's best friend, or he'll dig it right back up! You!—yes, you, hypocritical reader—my likeness, my twin—my brother!"
Section II: A Game of Chess
She sat in a chair that was like a shining throne, its glow reflected on the marble floor. A mirror, decorated with wrought-iron vines and a golden Cupid statue (and another statue who covered his eyes with one of his wings) reflected and doubled the flames of the seven-branched candelabra. The candlelight shone onto the table and caught the glitter of her jewels, which poured richly out of their satin cases. Her odd, fake perfumes were skulking around in uncorked vials made of ivory and of colorful glass. The perfumes were grease, powder, or liquid—and all of them were troubling and confusing. They overwhelmed the senses with their smells, which were stirred up by the fresh air that came in through the window, and fed the flames, whose smoke rose toward the ceiling and made the pattern look like it was moving. A huge piece of driftwood lined with copper and framed by colored stone seemed to glow green and orange, shedding sad light on a dolphin statue. Above the antique fireplace hung a painting of a forest scene depicting the transformation of Philomel, who was raped by a brutal king; but as a nightingale, she filled the desert with her unbreakable voice. Yet still she cried out, and was chased by the world, "Jug jug," a nightingale's song, which fell on deaf and ruined ears. And other old relics and their worn out stories hung on the walls; statues stared, leaned, stifling the close quarters of the room. Footsteps shuffled on the stairs. In the firelight, as she brushed her hair, the strands came to red fiery points, just like her words, which then led to savage silence.
"My anxiety is bad tonight. Yes, it is bad. Stay with me. Talk to me. Why don't you ever talk? Say something. What are you thinking about? Are you thinking? What? I never know what's going on in your head. Think."
I think we are in a broken dismal world, where men feel dead and lose their form and purpose.
"What's that sound?" It's just the wind blowing in under the door. "What's that other sound? What is the wind doing?" Nothing, again, the wind is doing nothing. "Do you know anything? Do you see anything? Do you remember anything?"
I remember the drowned man's eyes like pearls, in the tarot card. "Are you alive or not? Is there anything going on in your head?"
But oooooh, that ragtime song—it's so sophisticated, so smart! "What should I do now? What should I do? I'm going to rush outside just like this and walk the street with my hair down, like so. What should we do tomorrow? What on earth should we do?" The same thing we always do: heat the water for tea at ten, and if it rains, a car will come pick us up at four. And we will play chess, rub our eyes that cannot look away, and wait for someone to knock on the door and disturb this tired routine.
When Lil's husband got discharged from the army, I said—I spoke bluntly, saying to her myself—"HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME FOR THE PUB TO CLOSE."—"Now that Albert has come home from the war, dress yourself up. He'll want to know what you did with the money he gave you to fix your teeth. He did so give you money for your teeth, I know because I was there. Have them removed, Lil, and get a nice set of dentures; I remember, Albert said he couldn't bear to look at you like that, and neither can I," I said. "And think of your poor husband, he's been in the army four years and now he just wants to have a good time, and if you don't give it to him, others will be happy to," I said. "Oh, is that so?" she said. "Something like that," I said. "Well, if he does stray, I'll know who's to blame," she said, and gave me a pointed look. —"HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME FOR THE PUB TO CLOSE."—"If you don't like the way things are, then move on," I said. "Others will be happy to scoop him up if you don't want him. But if Albert leaves you, don't say I didn't warn you why. You should be embarrassed," I said, "to look so old and haggard." (She's only thirty-one, for goodness' sake.) "I can't help it," she said, with a sad expression, "it's because of the pills I took for the abortion." (She has five kids already, and nearly died giving birth to baby George.) "The pharmacist said it would be all right, but I haven't been the same since." "You are a true fool," I said. "Well, if Albert won't stop sleeping with you, that's that," I said. "What did you get married for if you don't want children?"—"HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME FOR THE PUB TO CLOSE."—Well, that Sunday Albert came home, they had a hot ham, and they asked me over for dinner, to enjoy that rare hot meal—"HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME FOR THE PUB TO CLOSE. HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME FOR THE PUB TO CLOSE."—"Good night Bill. Good night Lou. Good night May. Good night. Ta ta. Good night. Good night. Good night, ladies, good night, lovely ladies, good night, good night."
Section III: The Fire Sermon
The trees over the river are dormant: the last of their leaves cling and sink into the wet bank. The wind crosses the barren land without anyone around to hear it. The nymphs are all gone. Sweet river Thames, flow softly, until I my poem is over. There are no empty bottles, sandwich papers, silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette butts and other trash floating along the river, all that evidence of people hanging out there on summer nights. The nymphs are all gone. And they have been replaced by so-called elites, who pollute the river anyway; they're gone now too, though, and they left no way to contact them. By the waters of Lake Leman I sat down and cried... Sweet Thames, flow softly until my poem is over. Sweet Thames, flow softly, because I only have a few short, quiet things to say. But behind me, in a strong cold wind, I hear the deathly rattle of bones, and a cold laugh that spreads from ear to ear.
A rat gently crawled through the grasses, dragging its slimy belly on the riverbank, as I was fishing in the polluted canal on a winter evening behind the slums, thinking about the shipwreck of my brother, the king, and about the death of my father, the king before that. I was thinking about their pale corpses lying naked on the low damp ground and their bones left in a little low dry attic, disturbed only by rats, year after year. But behind me from time to time I hear the sound of horns and motors of cars, which will bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring. Oh, the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter, and on her daughter. They wash their feet in soda water. And, oh, those children's voices, singing in the dome!
Tweet tweet tweet, chirp chirp chirp chirp chirp chirp, chirp, she was raped,by Tereus, whose name sounds like birdsong.
In this unreal city, covered by the brown fog of a winter afternoon, Mr. Eugenides, the unshaven merchant from Smyrna, with a pocket full of currants paid for the cost, insurance, and freight to London: documents at the ready. He asked me in colloquial French to lunch at the Cannon Street Hotel, and then invited me to spend the weekend together at the Metropole Hotel.
At dusk, when the body finally gets up from the desk, when the modern human waits, like a taxi waits, humming like an engine, I, Tiresias, though blind, caught between two genders, an elderly man with wrinkled female breasts, can see at dusk, the evening hour that leads toward home, and brings the sailor home from sea, the typist, who comes home in the afternoon at teatime, washes her breakfast dishes, lights her stove, and lays out canned food. Hanging on a laundry line out the window, her drying undergarments receive the last of the sun's rays. On the sofa (which serves as her bed at night) are piled stockings, slippers, slips, and corsets. I Tiresias, the old man with wrinkled breasts, saw the scene, and predicted the rest—I too was waiting for the expected guest. He, the young man with acne, arrives. He is a small-time clerk, with a bold stare, one of the low-born who wears confidence like a Bradford millionaire wears a silk hat. The time is advantageous, he guesses: the meal is over, and she has nothing else to do. He attempts to get her in the mood, which she does not resist, though she does not desire it. Flushed and determined, he makes his move; his wandering hands receive no resistance; he is so vain he does not care that she does not respond to his advances with enthusiasm, and even welcomes her indifference. (And I Tiresias have already suffered all the ills that took place on this same sofabed; I who have sat by the city of Thebes below the walls and walked among the worst of the dead.) The young man gives her one last condescending kiss, and fumbles his way out, onto the darkened stairs...
She turns and looks for a moment in the mirror, 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." A lovely woman who has lowered herself to do a foolish thing, and now can only pace around her room alone, she smooths her hair with a robotic hand, and puts a record on the gramophone.
"This music crept by me upon the waters" and along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street. Oh City, city, I can sometimes hear, when I am near a pub on Lower Thames Street, the pleasant sounds of a mandoline, and the busyness and chatter from inside, where fishermen hang out at noon. Down where the walls of the church St. Magnus Martyr preserve the unexplainable splendor of ancient Roman white and gold columns.
The river exudes oil and tar, the barges drift down the water with the changing tide, their red sails open wide, downwind, swinging on the heavy masts. The barges wash away down the river like drifting logs, down past Greenwich, reaching past the Isle of Dogs. Weialala leia... Wallala leialala...
Queen Elizabeth I and her lover Robert Leicester: the beating oars of their boat, whose stern was a gilded shell of red and gold. The same swift waters rippled the shore in their time and ours, a southwest wind carrying the peal of bells from the white towers downstream. Weialala leia... Wallala leialala...
"Trolleys and dusty trees. I was born in Highbury. I was ruined in Richmond and Kew. In Richmond, I lost my virginity, laid out on the floor of a narrow canoe."
"My feet pointed pointed toward Moorgate, and I was on my back, my heart below my feet. After we had sex, he wept. He promised a 'new start.' I said nothing. What do I have to resent?"
"At Margate Sands. I can't make connections between anything. The broken fingernails of dirty hands. My people are humble people who expect nothing." La la
To the ancient city of Carthage then I came
Burning burning burning burning, O Lord do away with me, O Lord do away
burning
Section IV: Death by Water
Phlebas the Phoenician, who's been dead these last two weeks, has forgotten the cry of the seagulls, and the waves of the sea, and the profit and loss of his shipping business. A current under the sea picks at his bones bit by bit. As he rose and fell with the waves he saw his life pass before his eyes and entered the stormy whirlpool. No matter who you are, Gentile or Jew, oh, you who navigate your own life and look to the future, remember Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
V. What the Thunder Said
After the torchlight shone red on sweaty faces, after the gardens went cold and lifeless, after the agony in rocky places, after the shouting and the crying, in the prison and the palace alike, after the echoes of spring thunder over distant mountains, he who was alive is now dead. We who were alive are now dying, slowly.
There is no water here, only rock; only rock, no water, and the sandy road; the road winding up through the mountains, which are mountains made of rocks with no water. If there were water we would stop and drink. Among the rocks one cannot stop or think. Our sweat has gone dry and our feet are in the sand. If there were only water among the rocks. This is a dead mountain, like a mouth with decaying teeth that can no longer spit. This is a place where people cannot stand, lie down, nor sit. There isn't even silence in the mountains, only dry barren thunder that does not bring rain. You're not even alone in the mountains; instead, red pouting faces sneer and snarl from the doorways of their dry mud houses. If there was water and no rock, if there was rock and also water, and water, a spring, a pool among the rocks, if there were only the sound of water, not the cicadas' hum and dry grass blowing, but the sound of water running over a rock, where the hermit-bird sings in the pine trees, drip drop drip drop drop drop drop... but again there isn't any water.
Who is the third person always walking next to you? When I count, there is just you and me, side by side, but when I look ahead up the white road, there is always someone walking next to you. Gliding, wrapped in a brown cloak and hood. I do not know whether they are a man or a woman—but who is that, next to you?
What is that high-pitched sound in the air, motherly wails? Who are those hooded masses swarming over endless plains, stumbling over the cracked ground, surrounded only by the endless horizon? What is the city on the other side of the mountains? There are cracks and repairs and explosions in the dusk. Towers are falling. Jerusalem, Athens, Alexandria, Vienna, London. All of them are unreal.
A woman pulled her long black hair tight and played ominous music like a fiddle on those strings. Bats with the faces of babies whistled at dusk, beat their wings, and crawled heads-downward down a burnt wall. And upside down in the air hung towers, ringing familiar bells that kept the time. And voices sang out of empty reservoirs and dry wells.
In this decrepit hole, in the middle of the mountains, in the weak moonlight, the wind whistles through the grass, past fallen graves, around the chapel. There is the chapel, home only to the wind. It has no windows, and the door swings open and shut. Old bones can't hurt anyone. Only a rooster stood on the roof, saying cock-a-doodle-doo. There's a flash of lightning. Then, a damp gust, bringing rain.
The Ganges River was dry, and limp leaves waited for rain, while storm clouds gathered distantly over the snowy Himalayas. The jungle waited expectantly in silence. Then spoke the thunder: BOOM, or DA, like Datta, to give: what have we done? My friend, my heartbeat pounded with the awful bravery required to surrender to a moment of lust, which even our era of cautiousness cannot take back. These lustful acts, and these only, mark our existence, though they won't be found in our obituaries, or in memories cobwebbed with generosity, or in our wills unsealed by our lawyers. In our empty rooms: BOOM, or DA, like Dayadhvam, sympathize: I have heard the key turning in the lock, just once. We think of the key, each of us in prisons of our own making. As we think of the key, each of our prisons of the self are affirmed. Only at nightfall, vague rumors give momentary life to the broken man locked within himself. BOOM, or DA, like Damyata, control: the boat responded happily under expert hands. The water was quiet; your heart would also have responded happily, obediently, when invited by controlling hands.
I sat upon the shore fishing, with the barren plain behind me. Should I at least restore order to my kindgom? London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down. He hid himself in the fire which refines him. When shall I be like the swallow?—Oh, swallow, swallow. The Prince of Aquitaine in the ruined tower. These fragments, I have used as support against the ruins of my life. Why then I will accommodate you. Hieronymo's crazy again. Give. Sympathize. Control. Peace, peace, peace.
Themes
The Brokenness and Isolation of Modern Life
“The Waste Land” can be thought of as a poem about the alienation and brokenness of modern life. Written shortly after World War I, the poem reflects the generational trauma caused by the war, both on the battlefield and the home front. The “waste land” the poem portrays represents modern society itself, which Eliot depicts as shallow and isolating, lacking both the spiritual guidance and the cultural abundance of the past.
Though the people of “The Waste Land” are simply going about their ordinary lives, their inability to connect or communicate is indicative of the broken society in which they all live. In the poem’s first section, for instance, a crowd of people stream across London Bridge like zombies, suggesting the alienating and deadening effects of the modern world. When the speaker sees a fellow former soldier in the crowd ("Stetson") and calls out to him, the man's reply (if there is one) goes unmentioned. The speaker and Stetson both represent the disillusioned survivors of World War I, and are unable to communicate except in reference to their shared, traumatic past.
Likewise, in this disconnected modern world, intimacy and love have been reduced to mere physicality. In the poem's third section, "The Fire Sermon," a typist tidies her apartment before the arrival of her lover, but their sex scene is anything but romantic. It stops short of rape, but the woman clearly dislikes the man; once he leaves, she is glad he is gone. This scene again illustrates the poem’s broader point that modern life alienates people from one another.
This is further emphasized by the stanza that follows, in which Eliot substitutes his own words in the place of lyrics from a well-known opera, a juxtaposition that feels empty and shallow. Modern life, the poem suggests, lacks culture and class, and this descent into vulgarity is part of what drives people apart.
Importantly, the inability to communicate or connect is true at all levels of society. In Section II, a wealthy anxious woman pleads with the speaker to talk to her, but the speaker does not reply. Instead, he thinks unhappily to himself about their mundane everyday routine, which does not bring him comfort. This suggests that the surface-level niceties of modern life—the daily routine of “hot water at ten / and if it rains, a closed car at four”—offer no real relief from its underlying despair and sense of isolation.
Likewise, two working-class women chatting in a pub at the end of Section II are also dealing with despair and isolation. A woman named Lil’s husband is back from the war, and the other woman lectures Lil about fixing her teeth in order to appeal to him. Lil, however, needed the money for an abortion. Here, the poem captures two different kinds of modern brokenness. The direct discussion of abortion suggests that social norms have lost spiritual grounding, but the poem also depicts Lil’s friend, the speaker, as terribly unkind, again implying that a broken society prevents genuine human connection.
In the poem’s final section, however, Eliot pivots away from scenes of everyday life. Instead, he uses imagery and metaphor to portray the modern world as a literal waste land: a rocky barren place without water or sustenance, where even connecting with God is a struggle. This, the poem suggests, is the ultimate alienation from which all modern people suffer, and the source of modern life’s brokenness.
Death and Rebirth
Death is everywhere in the “The Waste Land,” both literally and metaphorically. Corpses litter the poem, while endings of all sorts represent death of a different kind throughout. Even the people of the poem resemble the walking dead, living lonely, unhappy lives. Nevertheless, though the majority of “The Waste Land” is preoccupied with death—something it presents as inevitable and inescapable—the poem is not entirely without hope. Indeed, the poem ultimately suggests that death, however devastating, is a necessary stage on the way to rebirth and renewal. Only from the wreckage of a waste land is a new beginning made possible.
One could fill many pages chronicling and making sense of all the things that die or come to an end in this poem. To name just a few: a woman Marie mourns the end of her childhood, the fortune-teller Madame Sosostris issues warnings about death by water, a corpse “planted last year in your garden / has … begun to sprout,” marriages and romances fail, women discuss abortion, girls lose their virginity, nymphs have “departed” from the Thames, landscapes are ravaged by drought, a pub reaches closing time, and a sailor literally drowns. Even the poem’s allusions are primarily associated with death, such as the repeated references to Dante’s Divine Comedy (which involves a journey through Hell).
Altogether, this barrage of endings in the poem suggests that the experience of death is universal (especially because the poem suggests that death need not be understood literally; the end of a romance, for example, feels like death).
The universality of this experience is made most explicit in Section IV, the poem’s shortest section, titled "Death by Water." Its brevity draws attention to the poem’s central message: that the fate of Phlebas, the drowned sailor “who was once handsome and tall as you” awaits everyone. This is certainly true in the literal sense, since all people die, but is also true metaphorically, because life is full of endings, as seen throughout the poem.
However, the poem also suggests that each of these deaths and endings is a necessary pit-stop on the road to rebirth. This idea is first hinted at through multiple allusions to the Greek myth of the rape of Philomela. After being brutalized by a king, who cuts out her tongue, Philomela nevertheless keeps singing, because she transforms into a nightingale. This transformation out of desperate circumstances into new life indicates that rebirth is possible, but only after experiencing a brutal end of some kind.
Fittingly, the poem itself undergoes a journey similar to Philomela’s. Though the first four sections are consumed by death and endings, the final section looks toward rebirth. It opens in an agonizing, apocalyptic landscape, before “a damp gust” brings rain and the speaker’s tone shifts. The speaker proceeds to talk about Eastern spiritual philosophies and describes the “arid plain”—infertile land standing in for death—as “behind” him. Now, he can “set [his] lands in order,” a kind of renewal or restoration. This closing section, complex and rich with allusions, ultimately affirms the possibility of rebirth—but only, the poem suggests, after surrendering to the inevitability of death in all forms.
Religion, Spirituality, and Nihilism
“The Waste Land” is a poem so rich with allusions to other works and ideas that Eliot himself included footnotes to help his readers understand them all. In particular, allusions to religion and spirituality play a vital role in the poem, as do depictions of nihilism (which, simply put, is the rejection of religious or moral principles, or the belief that life is meaningless). Throughout the poem, Eliot draws on both Western and Eastern religious traditions, particularly Christianity, Buddhism, and Hinduism. Ultimately, the poem suggests that a spiritual crisis is in part responsible for people’s isolation and despair in modern society. Thus, resolving that spiritual crisis—finding faith—could help restore modern civilization.
The poem's presents modern society as of a world without the spiritual guidance that the speaker thinks is essential for a moral life. Life without faith, the poem suggests, is a life of meaningless drudgery—with nothing but "The hot water at ten / And if it rains, a closed car at four." This spiritual crisis is what has led to the modern waste land, to a “burial of the dead” (as the first section is titled) among people who are in fact still living.
The speaker himself is part of this wretched population. This remains the trend throughout the poem, even as the speaker’s identity shifts and changes. Whether seeking advice from a fortune-teller, despairing over modern life, witnessing lust and vulgarity, or drowning at sea, the speaker remains distant from spiritual touchstones—from places like a chapel, a Hindu mantra, fertile soil, the nymphs of the Thames, a burial service—that might offer some relief.
Adding to this sense of distance and disconnect are Eliot’s constant allusions to religious and spiritual writings and ideas. Paradoxically, the poem uses these allusions in order to paint its picture of a deeply nihilistic world—a world without meaning. The juxtaposition of speakers who know enough to reference faith traditions, but not how to practice them and improve their lives, helps to hammer home the impact of the absence of faith on modern life.
Though the poem spares no detail in its depiction of nihilism, it also presents the possibility of redemption. To do so, Eliot alludes heavily to Buddhist and Hindu traditions, especially those that emphasize self-control, sacrifice, and compassion for others. The poem links these philosophies with the possibility of renewal (and rain) amidst the blighted waste land. In particular, the closing section expounds on the mantra “Datta, Dayadhvam, and Damyatta.” Each word is linked with metaphorical glimpses of what finding faith might feel like, from turning a key in the lock of spiritual imprisonment to sailing on a calm sea.
Similarly, the poem returns several times to the allegory of the Fisher King, comparing the journey from nihilism to redemption to the Christian tradition of an impotent Fisher King made powerful again through the Holy Grail—the blood of Christ.
Ultimately, by referring to multiple spiritual traditions throughout the poem, Eliot makes clear that it does not matter which faith a person or society follows. Instead, the poem suggests that any spiritual tradition is better than the nihilism that dominates modern life. Only then can people and society reach “Shantih”—the poem’s final word, which Eliot translated in his own footnote as “the peace which passeth understanding.”
Sex, Lust, and Impotence
Sex in “The Waste Land” is a dirty, sinful affair that serves as a marker for the decay of modern society. The poem presents lust and casual attitudes towards sex as a mark of moral depravity. In modern times, the poem implies, genuine love and connection are almost impossible to find; sex has thus become immoral and impotent—leading to waste, emptiness, and decay. Even the "thunder" that echoes over the wasteland is "sterile," unable to bring the water that would nourish the land and create the environment necessary for new life to grow.
The poem further links sex and lust with the legend of the Fisher King, the final guardian of the Holy Grail (a vessel that contains drops of Christ’s blood). There are many stories of the Fisher King, but all describe a king who lies mortally wounded in his thigh or groin—with the implication being that he can't fulfill his duty to father more children and continue his line, until a knight completes the quest to find the Holy Grail and heals the king. Tellingly, while the king’s body wastes away, so does his land; this is, in fact, where the poem's title "The Waste Land" comes from! Finding the Grail is thus necessary to revive not just the king but also the kingdom.
Importantly, though now linked with Christianity, the legend’s roots are in pagan traditions associated with fertility. In this way, Eliot’s allusions to the Fisher King tie into the poem’s broader ideas about sex, love, and power. The modern world is barren, wasting away just like the Fisher King’s kingdom. The many speakers, including one who literally sits fishing by the polluted Thames river, all experience powerlessness, or impotence, just like the mythical king experienced.
And, the poem argues, one of the metaphorical wounds responsible for this impotence and resulting waste land is the lack of romantic love and meaningful connection. The weight of lost love, failed romance, and unhappy marriage hangs over the poem, evoking the barrenness of the Fisher King’s kingdom. For example, in the second section, especially, allusions to doomed women like Shakespeare’s Ophelia, who drowns herself when she loses Hamlet’s affections, or Cleopatra, who commits suicide after her lover Antony is killed, convey the sheer hopelessness of any attempts at romance.
Thus deprived of love, people have seemingly turned to lust, which the poem portrays as immoral and fruitless. This is particularly clear in Section III, "The Fire Sermon"—ironically named after a speech from the Buddha about the importance of freeing oneself from earthly desires, which is exactly the opposite of what happens in this section of the poem. In particular, the scene between a typist and her lover conveys the poem’s disgust with meaningless sex. It's relayed to readers through the spying eyes of Tiresias, a blind prophet from Greek myth. The many layers of ugliness (including Tiresias’s “wrinkled dugs,” or breasts; the young man “carbuncular” with acne; and the sex itself, which is “undesired” but happens anyway) emphasize the poem’s portrayal of lustful sex as something dirty and repugnant, a clear sign of moral decay.
In keeping with the mythos of the Fisher King and Holy Grail, however, the poem also points towards the possibility of a healed waste land, as symbolized by restored romantic intimacy and fertility. For starters, in Section V, the rain returns—a symbol of fertile land. Also, this section explores a series of images that reflect stages of lust, loneliness, and love, and ultimately end on a heart responding "gaily" to the confines of marriage.
Most tellingly, the poem closes with the speaker “upon the shore / Fishing” and considering “set[ting his] lands in order.” This clear reference to the Fisher King suggests that the impotence that the speaker has felt throughout the poem in the face of the waste land has been cured. As a result, restoration of the waste land is possible.
Memory and the Past
“The Waste Land” is full of historical references. Some of these allude to real and significant historical events or figures, while others are merely personal memories tied to different speakers and characters in the poem. In many ways, the poem is an elegy for the past, mourning the decline of culture and society. But even as it mourns forgotten history, the poem itself helps to keep those memories alive by piling a dizzying number of historical allusions on top of each other. In doing so, the poem ultimately suggests that the present is simply a continuation of that past.
The poem opens with a woman, Marie, reflecting on her childhood nostalgically and with a tinge of sadness. This sets the tone for the poem’s treatment of the past as something both out of reach and impossible to forget. As the poem continues and the speakers begin to shift and change, so too do the references to the past. Eventually, past and present simply blur together. For instance, in line 70, the speaker refers to World War I by calling it “Mylae,” a battle from an ancient Roman war. This blurring speaks to the universality of war across time and place, past and present.
Similar blurring of time occurs again and again throughout the poem. The Renaissance poet, Dante, is alluded to at the modern London Bridge; the implication is that his canonical work on the many circles of hell continue to apply to the zombie-like people of present-day London. In line 197, “The sound of horns and motors” replace a "winged chariot” in an allusive line directly pulled from a seventeenth-century Marvell poem. The words of ancient St. Augustine—“To Carthage then I came”—ring through a modern subway station. And of course the ancient Greek figure of Tiresias appears amidst modern life, peeping in on moral decay.
What to make of these substitutions and allusions? The poem appears to be arguing that the past is never past—that the more things change, the more they stay the same. “The Waste Land” is certainly a response to and indictment of the unprecedented horrors of World War I. However, by consistently riffing on the past in order to talk about the present, the poem also argues that such horror has always been a part of human history.
The poem itself goes a long way toward remedying the very problem it identifies. By drawing on a rich variety of historical and literary references, the poem demands that readers become familiar with the histories that help make the poem make sense, and therefore keep alive the memories that the poem has already begun to mourn, but refuses to forget.
황무지
쿠메의 한 무녀가 단지 안에 매달려 있는 것을 보았다. 아이들이 “무녀야, 네 소원이 무엇 이냐?”라고 문자. 무녀는“난 죽고 싶어."라고 대답했다.
더 훌륭한 예술가
에즈라 파운드에게
1. 죽은 자의 매장 The burial of the dead
4월은 가장 잔인한 달
죽은 땅에서 라일락을 키워내고
추억과 욕정을 뒤섞고
잠든 뿌리를 봄비로 깨운다.
겨울은 오히려 따뜻했다.
잘 잊게 해주는 눈으로 대지를 덮고
마른 구근 (球根)으로 약간의 목숨을 대어주었다
슈타른 버거호 너머로 소나기와 함께 갑자기 여름이 왔지요.
우리는 주랑(柱廊)에 머물렀다가
햇빛이 나자 호프가르텐 공원에 가서
커피를 들며 한 시간 동안 얘기 했어요.
저는 러시아인이 아닙니다. 출생은 리투아니아지만
진짜 독일인입니다.
어려서 사톤 태공의 집에 머물렀을 때 설매를 태워줬는데 겁이 났어요.
그는 말했죠. 마리 마리 꼭 잡아.
그리곤 쏜살같이 내려갔지요.
산에 오면 자유로운 느낌이 드는 군요.
밤에는 대개 책을 읽고 겨울엔 남쪽에 갑니다.
이 움켜잡는 뿌리는 무엇이며,
이 자갈 더미에서 무슨 가지가 자라나오는가?
사람들이여, 너는 말하기 커녕 짐작도 못하리라
네가 아는 것은 파괴된 우상더미뿐
그곳엔 해가 쪼여대고
죽은 나무에는 쉼터도 없고
귀뚜라미도 위안을 주지 않고
메마른 돌엔 물소리도 없느니라.
단지 이 붉은 바위 아래 그늘이 있을 뿐
(이 붉은 바위 그늘로 들어오너라)
그러면 너에게 아침 네 뒤를 따른 그림자나
저녁에 너를 맞으러 일어서는 네 그림자와는 다른
그 무엇을 보여주리라
한 줌의 먼지 속에서 공포(恐怖)를 보여주리라
<바람은 상쾌하게
고향으로 불어요
아일랜드의 님아
어디서 날 기다려 주나?>
"일년전 당신이 저에게 처음으로 히야신스를 줬지요.
다들 저를 히야신스 아가씨라 불렀어요."
-- 하지만 히야신스 정원에서 밤늦게
한아름 꽃을 안고 머리칼 젖은
너와 함게 돌아왔을 때
나는 말도 못하고 눈도 안보여
산것도 죽은 것도 아니었다.
빛의 핵심인 정숙을 들여다 보며
아무것도 알 수 없었다.
<황량하고 쓸쓸합니다, 바다는>
유명한 천리안 소소트리스 부인은
독감에 걸렸다. 하지만
영특한 카드를 한 벌 가지고
유럽에서 가장 슬기로운 여자로 알려져 있다.
이것 보세요. 그녀가 말했다.
여기 당신 패가 있어요. 익사한
페니키아 수부이군요.
(보세요, 그의 눈은 진주로 변했어요.)
이건 벨라돈나, 암석의 여인
수상한 여인이예요.
이건 지팡이 셋 짚은 사나이, 이건 바퀴
이건 눈 하나밖에 없는 상인
그리고 아무 것도 안 그린 이 패는
그가 짊어지고 가는 무엇인데
내가 보지 못하도록 되어 있습니다.
교살당한 사내의 패가 안보이는 군요!
물에 빠져 죽는 걸 조심하세요.
수많은 삶들이 원을 그리며 돌고 있군요.
또 오세요. 에퀴톤 부인을 만나시거든
천궁도를 직접 갖고 가겠다고 전해주세요.
요새는 조심해야죠.
현실감이 없는 도시,
겨울 새벽의 갈색 안개 밑으로
한 떼의 사람들이 런던교 위로 흘러갔다.
그처럼 많은 사람을 죽음이 마쳤다고
나는 생각도 못했다
이따금 짧은 한숨들을 내쉬며
각자 발치만 내려 보면서
언덕을 너머 킹 윌리엄가를 내려가
성 메어리 울로스 성당이 죽은 소리로
드디어 아홉시를 알리는 곳으로.
거기서 나는 낯익은 자를 만나
소리쳐서 그를 세웠다.
"스테츤 자네 밀라에 해전 때 나와 같은 배에 탔었지!
작년 뜰에 심은 시체에 싹이 트기 시작했나?
올해엔 꽃이 필까?
혹시 때 아닌 서리가 묘상(苗床)을 망쳤나?
오오 개를 멀리하게, 비록 놈이 인간의 친구이긴 해도
그렇잖으면 놈이 발톱으로 시체를 다시 페헤칠 걸세!
그대! 위선적인 독자여! 나와 같은 자 나의 형제여!"
2. 체스 놀이 A game of chess
여인이 앉은 의자는 번쩍이는 옥좌 같이
대리석 위에서 빛나고, 거울은,
열매 열린 포도덩굴들, 그리고 그 틈으로 밖을 내다보는
황금빛 큐피드들이 - 그 중 하나는 제 날개로 제 눈 가렸지 -
만든 기둥들 의지해 서있는 거울은
일곱 가지 촉대 불빛 두 배로 부풀려 테이블 밝히며
공단 보석함에 담긴 채 아낌없이 내뿜는
그녀 보석들의 광채와 마주친다.
상아 약병들 색유리 향수병들 마개 열리니,
물로, 가루로, 연고로 된
신비로운 향기들 잠행하며
감각은 괴롭게, 어지럽게, 취하노라,
창으로 들어온 산뜻한 바람에
향기는 일렁이며 촛불불길 잡아당겨
화려한 천정까지 연기 끌어올리며
격자천정 장식들 흔들어 깨운다.
구리를 먹고 자란 거대한 바다나무
색색 대리석 벽난로 속에 녹색 주황색으로 타오르면,
그 슬픈 빛 속을 헤엄치는 돌고래 상[像] 하나.
고풍 벽난로 선반 위에는, 창문으로 숲속 극장 보여주듯
무지막지한 왕에게 끔찍한 욕을 당하고 새가 된
‘필로멜라’ 이야기가 걸려있는데,
그 나이팅게일의 신성한 울음소리 온 사막에 가득하고
여전히 울고 있건만, 여전히 음란한 세상
더러운 귀엔 ‘쩍 쩍’이라고 들릴 뿐.
그리고 시든 세월의 그루터기들을 이야기하는
벽면의 또 다른 얼굴들은
밖으로 쓰러질듯 노려보며 방안을 에워싸 고요히 만든다.
계단을 질질 끄는 발자국소리.
불빛아래, 빗질된 여인의 머리칼은 퍼지며
불꽃처럼 끝이 서서
말할 듯 타오르다가, 성난 듯 고요해진다.
‘오늘밤은 내 기분이 좋지 않군요. 그래요, 좋지 않아요. 가지 마세요.
‘내게 이야기 해주세요. 왜 도대체 이야기를 안 하시나요. 하시라니까요.
‘당신은 무슨 생각하고 있나요? 무엇을 생각하나요? 무엇을?
‘당신이 무슨 생각하는지 나는 도대체 알 수 없어요. 생각해보세요.’
나는 우리가 쥐구멍에 있다고 생각하오,
죽은 사람들이 뼈다귀들 잃는 곳 말이요.
‘저 소리는 무엇이에요?
문밖의 바람이오.
‘지금 저 소리는 뭐에요? 바람이 무얼 한단 말이에요?
아무 것도 아무 것도 아니요.
‘당신은
아무 것도 모르나요? 아무 것도 보지 않나요? 당신은 아무 것도
기억하지 않나요?’
나는 기억하오,
그의 두 눈은 진주로 변했소.
‘당신은 살아있나요, 죽었나요? 당신 머릿속엔 아무 것도 없단 말에요?
오로지
오 오 오 오 저 셰익스피어 식의 가락뿐 -
그토록 맵시 있고
그토록 재치 있는
‘나는 이제 무얼 할까요? 나는 무얼 할까요?’
‘나는 이대로 뛰쳐나가, 거리를 걸을 테요
‘머리칼은 이렇게 산발한 채. 우린 내일 무얼 할까요?
‘우리는 두고두고 무얼 할까요?’
열 시엔 더운 물 쓰고.
비가 오면 네 시엔 지붕 덮인 차를 타고.
그리고 우리는 장기 한 판 둔 다음,
초조한 눈 치켜뜨며, 문 두드리는 소리 기다릴 거요.
릴의 남편이 제대했을 때, 내가 말했지 -
아주 단도직입적으로 말해주었지,
서두르십시오, 시간이 됐습니다.
이제 앨버트가 돌아오니까, 네 몸도 좀 꾸며라.
이 해 박으라고 준 돈은 무엇에 썼느냐고 물어볼 거야,
그는 분명히 주었어, 나도 봤는걸.
릴, 죄다 빼버리고 참한 걸로 해 박아요,
그는 분명 이렇게 말했어, 나는 당신 꼴을 차마 볼 수 없어.
나도 참을 수 없어, 나도 말했지, 불쌍한 앨버트를 생각해봐,
4년 동안이나 군대에서 살았으니, 이제 재미도 좀 보고 싶겠지,
그런데 네가 그걸 해주지 않으면 남이 할 거야, 내가 말했어.
아, 그렇구나, 그녀가 말했지. 뭐 그런 거지, 내가 말했어.
그렇다면 누구에게 감사해야 할지 알겠어, 그리 말하며 그녀는 나를 노려보았지.
서두르십시오, 시간이 됐습니다.
그게 싫다고 해도 너는 참을 수 있을 거야, 내가 말했지,
네가 못한다면 남들이 골라잡을 거야.
앨버트가 정말 떠난다면, 그건 대화가 부족해서가 아닐 거야.
너는 그렇게 늙게 보이는 걸 부끄러워해야 해, 내가 말했어.
(그녀는 이제 겨우 서른 한 살이니까.)
나도 어쩔 수 없었어, 시무룩한 얼굴로 그녀가 말했지,
그것을 지우려고 먹은 알약들 때문이야, 그녀가 말했어.
(그녀는 벌써 다섯이나 낳았고, 막내 조지 때는 거의 죽을 뻔했지.)
약사는 괜찮을 거라고 했지만 나는 도무지 전 같질 않아.
너는 정말 바보로구나, 내가 말했어.
만약 앨버트가 가만 두지 않는다면 어떡할래,
아기도 안 낳을 거면 뭐 하러 결혼은 한 거야? 라고 했지.
서두르십시오, 시간이 됐습니다.
그런데 앨버트가 집에 온 일요일, 그들은 뜨거운 돼지고기요리를 장만해놓고,
나를 만찬에 초대했지, 더울 때 맛보라고 했지 -
서두르십시오, 시간이 됐습니다.
서두르십시오, 시간이 됐습니다.
잘 자요, 빌, 잘 자요, 루, 잘 자요, 메이, 잘 자라, 애들아,
잘 자요, 안녕히.
안녕히 주무세요, 부인네들, 안녕히 주무세요, 아가씨들, 안녕히 주무세요, 안녕히.
3. 불의 설교
강을 덮었던 천막 걷히고, 간당거리던 마지막 잎새들
축축한 강둑으로 가라앉는다. 바람은 소리 없이
황토벌판을 건넌다. 강물의 정령들도 떠났다.
고이 흘러다오, 정든 ‘템즈'여, 내 노래 끝날 때까지.
강물은 빈 병도, 샌드위치 포장지도,
비단 손수건도, 마분지 상자도, 담배꽁초도,
그 어떤 여름밤의 증거물도 품지 않았다. 강물의 정령들은 떠났다.
그리고 그들의 친구, 도회지 중역들의 빈둥대는 자제들도
떠나버렸다, 주소조차 남기지 않고.
‘레만’ 물가에 앉아 나는 울었노라...
정든 ‘템즈'여, 고이 흘러다오, 내 노래 끝날 때까지,
정든 ‘템즈'여, 고이 흘러다오, 내 노래 크지도 길지도 않으리니.
그러나 내 등에 부딪치는 한 줄기 찬바람 속에 나는 듣노라,
뼈다귀들 달그락거리는 소리를, 입이 찢어져라 낄낄대는 웃음을.
쥐 한 마리 강둑 풀밭사이로
진흙투성이 배때기 문지르며 슬쩍 지나가는
어느 겨울날 저녁 나는 가스탱크 뒤로
탁한 운하에 낚시 드리우며
나의 형왕[兄王]이 난파당한 것을 묵상했고
그에 앞선 부왕[父王]의 죽음을 슬퍼했다.
하얀 알몸들은 낮은 습지에 뒹굴고
백골들은 비좁고 메마른 다락방에 버려져
해마다 쥐들 발길에만 뒤채이며 덜그럭거린다.
하지만 내 등 뒤에서 이따금 들려오는
엔진소리, 경적소리, 그들은
‘스위니’를 샘터의 '포터'부인에게 데려다 주리라.
'포터'부인과 그 딸을 비추는
오, 휘영청 밝은 달이여
소다수로 발을 씻는 그들에게
오, 둥근 천정아래 아이들 합창소리여!
짹 짹 짹
쩍 쩍 쩍 쩍 쩍 쩍
그리도 무지막지 욕보았구나.
테레우
허황된 도시
한 겨울 한낮의 누런 안개 속에서
‘스미르나’의 상인 ‘유게니데스’씨는
수염도 깎지 않고, 주머니엔
런던 입항 운임 및 보험료 매주(賣主)부담인
건포도와 일람불(一覽拂)증서들 잔뜩 지닌 채,
‘캐논’ 가 호텔에서 점심을 들자고
주말에는 ‘메트로폴’에서 놀자고
상스런 불어로 내게 청하더군.
보랏빛 시간, 인간의 두 눈과 등짝이 책상머리 떠나
위를 향하고, 인간의 엔진도 털털거리며
대기하는 택시처럼 기다리는 시간,
나, 쭈그러진 여인의 젖가슴 달린 늙은이, 비록 눈멀었으나
남녀 사이를 고동치는 ‘티레시아스’는 볼 수 있노라,
이 보랏빛 시간을, 귀가를 재촉하는 이 한때를,
뱃사람을 바다에서 집으로 데려오고
타이피스트도 돌아와 아침 설거지하며,
난로에 불붙이고 통조림 음식들 늘어놓게 하는 이 저녁을.
창 밖에는 위태로이 널린
콤비네이션 팬티들 마지막 햇살 받고 ,
밤이면 침대 되는 소파 위에는
양말과 슬리퍼, 속옷과 코르세트들 쌓여있다.
쭈그러진 젖가슴 달린 늙은이, 나 ‘티레시아스’는
그 광경을 보고 그다음 일 예언하며 -
나 또한 예약된 손님 기다렸노라.
그가, 여드름투성이 젊은이가 도착했다,
눈매 당돌한 그는 소형주택업자의 서기이며,
‘브래드퍼드’ 전쟁졸부의 실크해트처럼
자신만만한 하류계층이었다.
딱 알맞은 시간이로군, 그는 헤아린다,
식사도 끝났고 여자는 나른하니
그녀를 껴안으려 애를 쓴다면
바라지 않았더라도 뿌리치지 않으리라.
얼굴 붉히며 작정하고 단숨에 덤벼든다,
더듬는 손길은 아무 방어도 만나지 않는다.
사나이의 허영은 반응을 원치 않으며,
여자의 무관심을 도리어 반기고 있다.
(그리고 나 - ‘티레시아스’는 침대건 소파건
이런 데서 행해지는 일들은 모두 겪어봤노라,
‘테베’의 성벽아래 앉아있기도 했고,
가장 천한 천민들 주검사이를 걷기도 했노라.)
사내는 마지막 생색내는 키스를 하고,
불 없는 계단을 더듬어 내려간다...
그녀는 돌아서서 거울을 잠시 들여다보며
떠나버린 애인 따위는 지워버리고
되다만 생각들로 머릿속을 채운다,
‘그래, 이제 그건 끝났어, 끝나서 시원하구나.’
아름다운 여자가 어리석음에 빠져
홀로 자기 방을 거닐 땐,
그녀 손은 자동적으로 머리칼 매만지며,
축음기에 레코드를 거는 것이리니.
‘이 음악은 내 곁을 미끄러지며 강물 따라’
‘스트랜드’ 거리 따라 ‘빅토리아’ 여왕 대로로 기어갔노라.
오, 도시, 도시여, 나는 이따금 듣노라,
하류 ‘템즈’ 강변 거리 싸구려 술집 지나노라면
기분 좋게 흐느끼는 만돌린 소리와
빈둥거리며 낮술 먹는 어부들 떨거덕거리며
떠들어대는 소리를: 그러나 거기
순교자 마그누스 성당 벽, 이오니아식의
흰빛 금빛은 말할 수 없이 찬란했노라.
강물은 기름과 ‘타르’로
땀 흘리고
거룻배들은 썰물과 더불어
떠서 흐르며
붉고 넓은 돛폭들은
육중한 원목 돛대 돌며
바람맞이 한다.
거룻배들은
통나무들 물결에 씻으며
‘개들의 섬’을 지나
‘그리니치’에 다다른다.
웨이얼랄라 레이아
월랄라 레이알랄라
엘리자베스와 레스터
노를 젓는데
뱃머리는
붉은빛과 황금빛
금박 입힌 조개
활기찬 물결들은
양쪽 기슭 찰랑이고
남서풍은
하얀 탑들을
종소리를
불러 내린다
웨이얼랄라 레이아
월랄라 레이알랄라
‘전차들과 먼지 덮인 나무들.
하이버리는 나를 낳았어요. 리치몬드와 큐는
나를 망쳤어요. 리치몬드에서 나는
비좁은 카누 바닥에 등 붙이고 누워 두 무릎 세웠어요.’
‘나의 두 발은 무어게이트에 있었고 내 가슴은
내 발아래 짓밟혔지요. 그 일을 치룬 다음
남자아이는 울었어요. 그 애는 ‘새 출발’을 약속했고
나는 잠자코 있었지요. 내가 무얼 탓하겠어요?’
‘마르게이트’모래밭.
나는 이어갈 뿐이에요
허무와 허무를.
더러운 손들 찢어진 손톱들을.
기대할 것 하나 없는
불쌍한 내 동포를.’
라 라
카르타고에 나는 왔노라
탄다 탄다 탄다 탄다
오 주여 그대 나를 건지시이다
오 주여 그대 나를 건지시이다
탄다
4. 물에의한 죽음
죽은 지 보름지난 ‘페니키아’ 상인 ‘플레바스’는
갈매기 울음도, 깊은 바다 물결도
남고 밑지는 것까지도 잊어버렸다.
바다 속 물결은
속삭이며 그의 뼈 발라냈다. 그가 물맴이로 들어와
그 속을 오르내릴 때마다
그는 청춘과 노년의 고비 고비를 다시 겪었다.
그대가 기독교도이든 유대인이든
오 그대가 바람과 맞서는 키잡이라면
'플레바스'도 한때 그대처럼 멋지고 웅대했다는 것을 잊지 말라.
5. 천둥이 말한 것
땀에 젖은 얼굴 위로 붉은 횃불 비춘 다음
서릿발 같은 침묵이 정원 안에 서린 다음
돌밭에서 그 괴로움 겪은 다음
외치는 소리 울부짖는 소리
감옥에도 궁궐에도 울려 퍼지면
먼 산 넘어 대답하는 봄날의 우뢰소리
살아있던 그분 이제 돌아가셨고
살아있던 우리도 조금 버티다가
이제 죽어가노라
여기는 물이 없고 오직 바위뿐
물도 없는 바위와 모래밭 길
산 속 굽이굽이 돌아
물 없는 바위산 돌아 오르는 산길
물만 있다면 멈추어 목 축이련만
그 바위틈에선 멈추려는 생각도 못 하네
땀은 마르고 두 발은 모래 속에 박히니
아 바위들 틈에 물만 있다면
하지만 입안엔 썩은 이빨들만 가득해 침도 못 뱉는 죽은 산
여기선 서지도 눕지도 앉지도 못 하네
산 속에선 고요조차 없으니
비 없이 내리치는 마른 천둥번개들
산 속에선 고독조차 없으니
갈라진 흙 담 문간마다 붉은 얼굴들
으르렁대며 빈정대며 시큰둥한 얼굴들
여기는 물이 없고 오직 바위뿐
물도 없는 바위와 모래밭 길
산 속 굽이굽이 돌아
물 없는 바위산 돌아 오르는 산길
물만 있다면 멈추어 목 축이련만
그 바위틈에선 멈추려는 생각도 못 하네
땀은 마르고 두 발은 모래 속에 박히니
아 바위들 틈에 물만 있다면
하지만 입안엔 썩은 이빨들만 가득해 침도 못 뱉는 죽은 산
여기선 서지도 눕지도 앉지도 못 하네
산 속에선 고요조차 없으니
비 없이 내리치는 마른 천둥번개들
산 속에선 고독조차 없으니
갈라진 흙 담 문간마다 붉은 얼굴들
으르렁대며 빈정대며 시큰둥한 얼굴들
물은 있고
바위 없다면
바위 있고
물도 있다면
그리고 그 물이
그 샘물이
바위틈에 고여 있다면
다만 물소리라도 있다면
매미 아니고
마른 풀잎들 노래 아니라
바위 위 흐르는 물소리라면
하지만 거기 소나무 위 봉작[蜂雀]새
뚜닥 또닥 뚜닥 또닥 또닥 또닥 또닥
울어대지만 물은 없구나
항상 그대 곁 걸어가는 제 3의 인물은 누구인가?
헤아려보면 오로지 그대와 나 둘뿐
그러나 저 앞 하얀 길 올려다보면
항상 그대 곁을 걷는 또 한 사람
황토 빛 망토 두르고 두건 가리고
남자인지 여자인지 모르지만 미끄러지듯
그대 곁을 가는 사람은 누구란 말인가?
하늘 높이 울리는 저 소리는 무엇인가
어머니의 탄식 같은 중얼거림
갈라진 대지에선 비틀거리며 끝없는 벌판 넘어,
지평선만으로 둘러싸인 평탄한 곳으로
두건 뒤집어쓰고 우글거리며 몰려오는 저들은 누구인가
산 너머엔 무슨 도시들 있기에
보랏빛 하늘아래 총성과 혁명 터지는가
무너지는 탑들
예루살렘 아테네 알렉산드리아
비엔나 런던
허망하여라
한 여인이 그녀의 긴 머리 팽팽히 잡아당겨
머리칼 현[絃]을 켜서 음악을 속삭이니
아기 얼굴 박쥐들 보랏빛 어스름 속에
휘파람소리 내고 날개들 퍼덕이며
머리들 아래로 시커먼 벽 기어내리고
허공중에 물구나무선 탑들은
추억의 종을 울려 때를 알리니
빈 물독 메마른 우물에서 쏟아지는 노래 소리
첩첩산중 이 폐허 골짜기
아련한 달빛아래 풀잎들은 노래하네,
허물어진 무덤들을, 그리고 예배당
다만 바람의 숙소일 뿐인 텅 빈 예배당을.
거기엔 창문 없고 문도 절로 여닫히지만
바짝 마른 백골이 누구를 해치리오.
오로지 수탉 한 마리 지붕위에서
꼬 꼬 리꼬 꼬 꼬 리꼬
번쩍이는 번갯불 속에 울뿐. 그러자
습한 바람은 비를 몰고 온다.
갠지스 강은 바닥보이고, 축 처진 나뭇잎들은
비를 기다리는데, 먹장구름은
저 멀리 히말라야 너머로 모여들었다.
밀림은 말없이 웅크리며 도사렸다.
그러자 우뢰가 말했다
다
다타: 우리는 무엇을 주었는가?
친구여, 내 가슴 뒤흔드는 피를
늙은이 분별로도 결코 움츠려들지 않고
찰라에 내맡기는 그 무서운 대담성을
바로 이것, 오직 이것으로, 우린 살아왔지만
우리 죽음 알리는 기사에서 행적으로 알려지지 않고
착한 거미가 그물 덮어주는 碑銘에도 기록되지 않으며
우리의 빈 방에서 깡마른 변호사가
개봉하는 유언장에 남길 것도 아니다
다
다야드밤: 열쇠소리를 나는 들었노라
단 한번 문에 꼽혀 단 한번 돌아가는 소리를
우리는 그 열쇠를 생각하고, 저마다 제 감방에서
그 열쇠를 생각하며 감옥을 확인하노라
오직 밤이 와야만 허공에 뜬 소문들은 잠시 동안
몰락한 '코리오레이너스'를 회상시킨다
다
담야타: 돛과 노 능란히 다루는 손길에
배는 즐거이 따라왔노라
잔잔한 바다에 그대 초대 되었다면
그대 마음 또한 다스리는 손길에 순종하여
고동치며 즐거이 따랐으리라
나는 기슭에 앉아
그 메마른 들판 뒤로 하고 낚시를 드리웠다
하다못해 내 땅들만이라도 바로 잡아야겠지?
런던 다리 무너져요, 무너져요, 무너져요
그리고 그는 정화되는 불 속으로 몸을 감추었다
나는 언제쯤에야 제비처럼 될까 - 오 제비여 제비여
폐탑에 갇힌 아끼뗀느의 왕자
이 단편들로 나는 내 폐허를 버텨왔노라
아 그렇다면 분부대로 하옵지요. ‘히어로니모’는 또다시 발광했다.
다타. 다야드밤. 담야타.
샨티 샨티 샨티
The Waste Land 특징
1. Symbolism(상징주의)
Allegory(은유): 추상적인 것 -> 구체적인 것으로 표현
2. 5부 433행시, 각 부의 시행의 배열이 각각 다르게 구성
3. 시인은 현대를 살아있지만 죽은 황무지라고 말함
4. 영어 등 5개 나라의 언어가 인용됨
5. 문체, 운율 등에서 혁신적인 기법을 선보였다. -> 20C 모더니즘의 대표작
6. 자유시로서 대화체 기법 사용
7. (2부) A Game of Chess: Robert Browning식의 'dramatic monologue(극적독백)'의 장면을 보여줌
8. (3부) The Fire Sermon: Edmund Spenser의 싯구 ★'Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song' 인용
9. 시의 난해성, 성배의 전설 - 여러 성서 - 신화 - 셰익스피어 - 캔터베리 이야기 등을 인용했다.
해설
- 시인은 1차 세계대전을 경험해 현대 서구문명의 불모성과 정신의 황폐함을 그려냈다. / 기독교를 정신적 바탕으로 하는 서구문명의 병폐와 무력함, 생명없는 듯이 살아가는 사람들의 삶을 신화의 인용과 방대한 상징을 통해 묘사
- 해석: ‘4월은 가장 잔인한 달(April is the cruellest month)’ = 시간의 순환이라는 모든 생명체의 존재가 적어도 보편적으로 재생과 부활을 가져올 수 있는 때인 4월, 하지만 봄이 오더라도 결코 새로운 생명을 피워낼 수 없는 황폐화된 현대 유렵문명의 당시의 상황에 대한 시인의 심정을 고백하는 것이라 할 수 있다.
- Unreal City: London을 지칭(Hell을 상징), 현대인에게 물질적 풍요를 제공하기는 하지만 정신이 죽어가는 세속적인 현대 문명도시를 가리킨다. 시인은 문명도시를 희망과 비전이 없는 지옥으로 본 것이다.
1부: The Burial of the Dead
2부: A Game of Chess
3부: The Fire Sermon
4부: Death by Water
5부: What the Thunder Said