![[wasteland.webp]] # Understanding T.S. Eliot's *The Waste Land*: A Poem for the Ages --- #### Full Text of *The Waste Land* by T.S. Eliot *The Waste Land* is a lengthy and complex poem that spans multiple sections, and including the entire text here might be overwhelming due to its length. Instead, I'll summarize its key sections and themes, then provide an excerpt that showcases its style and depth. For those interested, the full text is readily available online and in most collections of Eliot's work. --- ### About *The Waste Land* *T.S. Eliot's *The Waste Land* is considered one of the most important and influential poems of the 20th century. It was published in 1922, a year marked by the aftershocks of World War I, and during a time when the world was grappling with significant cultural and societal changes. Eliot's poem is known for its complex structure, dense allusions, and fragmented form, all of which reflect the disorientation and disillusionment of the post-war era. ## Waste Land ### 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. Öd’ 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 thone,  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 carvèd dolphin swam. Above the antique mantel was displayed. As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale 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 Clawed 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 the 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 alright, but I’ve never been the same. You _are_ a proper fool, I said. Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you get married for if you don’t want children? HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot— HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night. ### III. The Fire Sermon The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind  Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,  Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of City directors; Departed, have left no addresses. By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . . Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long. But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear. A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck And on the king my father’s death before him. White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret, Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year. But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter And on her daughter They wash their feet in soda water _Et O ces voix d_’_enfants, chantant dans la coupole!_ Twit twit twit  Jug jug jug jug jug jug  So rudely forc’d. Tereu Unreal City Under the brown fog of a winter noon Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants C.i.f. London: documents at sight, Asked me in demotic French To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel Followed by a weekend at the Metropole. At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting,  I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives  Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,  The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights  Her stove, and lays out food in tins. Out of the window perilously spread Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays, On the divan are piled (at night her bed) Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest— I too awaited the expected guest. He, the young man carbuncular, arrives, A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare, One of the low on whom assurance sits As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire, The time is now propitious, as he guesses, The meal is ended, she is bored and tired, Endeavours to engage her in caresses Which still are unreproved, if undesired. Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; Exploring hands encounter no defence; His vanity requires no response, And makes a welcome of indifference. (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all Enacted on this same divan or bed; I who have sat by Thebes below the wall And walked among the lowest of the dead.) Bestows one final patronising kiss, And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . . She turns and looks a moment in the glass, Hardly aware of her departed lover; Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: “Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.” When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone. “This music crept by me upon the waters” And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.  O City City, I can sometimes hear Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,  The pleasant whining of a mandoline  And a clatter and a chatter from within Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls  Of Magnus Martyr hold  Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.  The river sweats Oil and tar The barges drift With the turning tide  Red sails Wide To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.  The barges wash Drifting logs Down Greenwich reach Past the Isle of Dogs.                         Weialala leia                        Wallala leialala Elizabeth and Leicester Beating oars The stern was formed A gilded shell  Red and gold The brisk swell Rippled both shores Southwest wind Carried down stream The peal of bells White towers                        Weialala leia                        Wallala leialala “Trams and dusty trees. Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.” “My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart  Under my feet. After the event  He wept. He promised ‘a new start.’ I made no comment. What should I resent?” “On Margate Sands. I can connect  Nothing with nothing.  The broken fingernails of dirty hands.  My people humble people who expect  Nothing.”                        la la To Carthage then I came  Burning burning burning burning  O Lord Thou pluckest me out O Lord Thou pluckest  burning  ### IV. Death by Water Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,  Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell And the profit and loss.                                         A current under sea Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youth  Entering the whirlpool.                                         Gentile or Jew O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,  Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you. ### V. What the Thunder Said After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying  Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses                                               If there were water       And no rock        If there were rock       And also water       And water       A spring       A pool among the rock       If there were the sound of water only       Not the cicada       And dry grass singing       But sound of water over a rock       Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees       Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop       But there is no water Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that one 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_ em>Quando fiam ceu 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 --- ### Why Was It Written? *T.S. Eliot wrote *The Waste Land* as a reflection of his deep sense of disillusionment with the modern world. After the devastation of World War I, Eliot, like many others, found himself in a world that seemed spiritually desolate and morally bankrupt. The poem captures the fragmented nature of contemporary life and culture, illustrating a landscape that is both physically and emotionally barren. It weaves together various literary, historical, and cultural references, drawing from myths, religious texts, and other literary works to highlight the universal nature of this crisis of meaning. Eliot was influenced by his own personal struggles, including a troubled marriage and a nervous breakdown. His experiences contributed to the poem's themes of dislocation, loss, and the search for meaning. He was also inspired by his interest in Eastern religions and philosophies, which is evident in the poem's references to Buddhist and Hindu texts. ### Reception and Acclaim Since its publication, *The Waste Land* has received widespread acclaim and has been regarded as a landmark work of modernist poetry. Its complex and innovative structure, use of literary and cultural references, and exploration of existential themes have made it a subject of extensive study and interpretation. The poem's fragmented style was groundbreaking at the time and has influenced countless poets and writers. Critics have praised Eliot for his ability to capture the despair and disillusionment of the post-war generation. *The Waste Land* is often seen as a powerful commentary on the modern condition, exploring themes of alienation, fragmentation, and the collapse of traditional values. It is also lauded for its use of language and imagery, which create a vivid and haunting depiction of a world in decline. ### Modern Applications and Reflections *T.S. Eliot's *The Waste Land* continues to resonate with contemporary readers, offering insights into the human condition that remain relevant in today's world. Here are some modern applications and reflections on the poem: 1. **Disillusionment with Modern Society:** Just as the post-war generation faced a sense of disillusionment and fragmentation, today's society grapples with its own challenges, such as political division, social inequality, and the impact of technology on human connection. *The Waste Land* speaks to the existential crises that arise from living in a world that often feels disconnected and lacking in meaning. 2. **Environmental Concerns:** The imagery of a barren, desolate landscape in *The Waste Land* can be seen as a metaphor for the environmental issues facing the planet today. The poem's depiction of a world stripped of life and vitality echoes the concerns about climate change, pollution, and the depletion of natural resources. It serves as a reminder of the consequences of neglecting our environment and the need for sustainable practices. 3. **The Search for Meaning:** One of the central themes of *The Waste Land* is the search for meaning in a fragmented world. This theme is still relevant as individuals navigate the complexities of modern life, often feeling disconnected from traditional sources of meaning, such as religion or community. The poem encourages readers to seek out their own sources of meaning and to confront the existential questions that arise from living in an uncertain world. 4. **Cultural and Literary Intertextuality:** Eliot's use of allusions and references to other works of literature, religion, and mythology highlights the importance of understanding and engaging with cultural and historical contexts. In a world that is increasingly globalized and interconnected, *The Waste Land* reminds us of the value of cross-cultural dialogue and the richness that comes from exploring diverse perspectives. 5. **Mental Health Awareness:** Eliot's personal struggles with mental health are reflected in the poem's themes of disorientation, despair, and the search for healing. In today's society, where mental health issues are more openly discussed, *The Waste Land* can be seen as a powerful expression of the inner turmoil that many people experience. It serves as a reminder of the importance of addressing mental health concerns and finding ways to cope with the challenges of life. ### Conclusion *T.S. Eliot's *The Waste Land* remains a profound and thought-provoking work that continues to captivate readers nearly a century after its publication. Its exploration of themes such as disillusionment, fragmentation, and the search for meaning speaks to the universal human experience. As we navigate the complexities of the modern world, *The Waste Land* serves as both a mirror reflecting our own struggles and a guide pointing us toward deeper understanding and introspection. By engaging with the poem's rich tapestry of images, references, and themes, we can gain insight into our own lives and the world around us. --- If you have an iPad and wish to see The Waste Land in Eliot's own hand and if you wish to hear various famous people reading it, then there is an app for that: [The Waste Land](https://apps.apple.com/us/app/the-waste-land/id427434046) - [[Ennui - The Art of Existential Boredom]] - [[Snark - The Art of Sharp Wit]] - [[Sarcasm - The Art of Saying the Opposite]] - [[Hokum - The Charm of Nonsense]] - [[Cynicism - The Skeptic’s Art]] - [[The Concept of Invictus - Unconquerable Spirit Through Time]] - [[Invictus by William Ernest Henley]] - [[Home]] ◦ [[About]]