荒原(中英文)—— T.S.Eliot

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

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

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

艾略特的诗歌作品有艾略特（T.S. Eliot）是20世纪最重要的英语诗人之一，他的诗歌作品以其深刻的思想、复杂的结构和独特的风格而闻名。

以下是一些艾略特的著名诗歌作品：1. 《荒原》（The Waste Land），这是艾略特最著名的诗歌作品之一，被认为是现代主义诗歌的里程碑之一。

它探讨了战争、文化破碎、人类孤独等主题，运用了多种语言和文化的引用，形成了复杂的叙事结构。

2. 《四个四重奏》（Four Quartets），这是艾略特的一系列长诗作品，包括《燃烧的草》（Burnt Norton）、《东风》（East Coker）、《干旱之地》（The Dry Salvages）和《小吉尔斯》（Little Gidding）。

这些作品探讨了时间、信仰、人类存在等主题，被认为是艾略特晚年创作的巅峰之作。

3. 《愚人之歌》（The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock），这首诗以第一人称的形式讲述了一个中年男子的内心独白，探讨了生活的空虚、自我怀疑和社交焦虑等主题。

它被认为是现代主义诗歌的经典之作。

4. 《亚伯拉罕之书》（The Book of Abraham），这是艾略特早期的一部叙事诗，以宗教和神话的元素为基础，探讨了个人的信仰和灵性追求。

5. 《灰烬》（Ash Wednesday），这是艾略特在转向天主教之后创作的一部长诗，探讨了信仰、救赎和灵性的主题。

除了以上列举的作品，艾略特还有许多其他诗歌作品，如《普鲁士的死人》（The Dead Prussian）、《马克斯·贝尔曼的诗》（The Poetry of Max Beerbohm）等。

他的诗歌作品风格多样，包括现代主义的实验性写作、宗教和神秘主题的探索，以及对社会和人类存在的深入思考。

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

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

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

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

中国早期的现代诗歌应该是继承于欧洲而不是美洲。

这得益于一些留学欧洲学人的推荐和传播。

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

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

很多人把这几个人归结为现代朦胧诗歌的起源。

其实是不当的。

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

中国诗歌在七十年代末八十年代初期，有一个特别辉煌的复兴时期。

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

这期间杰出的诗人有北岛，舒婷等。

在八十年代的中末期，中国诗坛终于迎来了大爆炸的时期。

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

所写的诗歌讦曲骜牙，常人难以读懂。

这就是后来广被非议的现代朦胧诗。

为什么称为现代朦胧诗？这是为了区别于以唐朝李商隐为代表的古体朦胧诗歌。

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