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aghhhhh… I’m 17 on the eve of my 18th… currently listening to ts eliot and having an existential crisis about leaving childhood… Marie Marie hold on tight
I think it's only because this was released on vinyl and whoever made the digital recording lost the beginning, you can search for the version were Eliot reads alone, he actually says both The Wasteland and Burial of the dead. ru-vid.com/video/%D0%B2%D0%B8%D0%B4%D0%B5%D0%BE-1rpFBSO65P4.htmlsi=saN-kS2B84-SLaST @@koshu4
Played by my favorite prof in some useless English class or another and I was the only one who cries. Openly and frequently as the words poured from the old phonograph. At least I made friends that day with that prof and became a lifelong devote to Eliiot. I try to pass this on but it doesn't resonate. We are on lost times. We're just lost.
My high school English teacher played this and I remember Eliot's vioce as if it was yesterday - that deadpan delivery...in an acquired pronunciation belying his mid-western roots.
@@skulleton I'm glad you wrote this. Every generation's home to those who lament... and those who pass along hope. Thank you for being among the latter.
So many strong lines in The Wasteland. Part two used to go over my head when I first read it almost twenty years ago, but the latter half makes much more sense when you realize it’s a scene at a pub and the woman has a strained marriage. A little subtle. There are so many suggestive layers throughout the whole piece. The line near the very end, “Hieronimo is mad again”, is the title of a play that was groundbreaking for its time. It’s clear Eliot knew where he was in history and how The Wasteland would be received. I’ve never found anything in criticism where they really pick that line apart. It’s a revenge tragedy. “Avenge this”, maybe he feels.
When I started a teacher training's college in The Hague. I didn't feel the poem but when at university I loved it and used the title for my own creative writing paper. I like the hollowness of the poem yet so filled with everything.
Holy shit! I grew up with my grandparents, and my grandma painted. She had a painting of Mark Twain she did, which was very ominous. It hung right next to another painting she did that always frightened me as a child. I'm 37 and just now stumbled randomly upon the "scary" man in the painting. How beautiful. It wasn't this picture though. He had on a hat and glasses.
Ted Hughes takes over reading midway through the first section-a little unexpected, but Hughes is a great reader! Check put his recitation of Yeats' "The Second Coming."
So true. It is a poem for all times. But specially suited for the human condition in the present times. I have never come across a better commentary on the fragmentation of human psyche. Dense and deep.
@@darkpoetik5375 Much of the poem was written in 1918 while Eliot and his wife were recovering from bouts of influenza, the greatest pandemic of the 20th Century.
Greetings from Ireland 🇮🇪 . A Stroke of GENIUS! 👏👏👏🍾🥂💐👏👏👏💐🍾🥂👏 100 years OLD : 15th October 2022 ( onwards ) . ARGUABLY - the MOST ~ Inspired / \ INFLUENCE; on Generations of WRITER'S and POETS = "The Waste Lands" ~ Poem. 🤔🤔 "Read by T. S. Eliot { "HIMSELF" } 🤔🤔 " !
"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..... 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..."( T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land )
In April 1943 a bunch of poets gave readings of their work before the Royal Family. During Eliot's recital of 'The Waste Land' Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret were seen struggling not to giggle.
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 arch-duke’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 4:55 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.
"Come in under the shadow of this red rock, and I will, show you something different...I will show you fear, in a handful of dust..." brilliantly dramatized. Powerful language
@@harikishore2514 the line he skips over about the shadow in the morning striding behind you, or the shadow at evening rising to meet you, he is talking about how one perceives history. He refutes that one can belong to their own history, or write the history of those people to come; to him, these are both illusions, and the true nature of a man's place in history is negligible -- hence showing you "fear in a handful of dust." and I don't want to be pedantic, filipe, but pedantism isn't a word. You're thinking of pedantry, and it doesn't mean what you seem to think it means. Perhaps you meant pretension? But defend your own unwillingness to read and interpret poetry however you want, you only insult yourself.
Ah, so it was Lia Williams - she does a great job. A very effective way of presenting The Wasteland. Using the 3 voices at the end was very moving. Ted Hughes has a wonderfully intense reading voice, while Eliot is so dry. Very effective contrasts.
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.
I forget that TS Eliot was such a voice actor that he could sound like such a higher pitched woman. Truly impressive, and a shame most people know him fornhis poetry and not his fantastic mimicry. Lol.
Mr. Elliot wished to manufacture the great proceed in an attempt to negate the monstrosity of acceptable procession! So here we lay await upon the knock upon the door when the horror of the loss of our freedom is upon us... We re really in the right place and times in which we can succumb to reviving antique methods in the name or exnorating DESpotISM
I need a bit of help from some poetry enthusiasts. It's for an exam. Within the information I found about this poem, it states that the early lines are written in Iambic Meter to give the poem a false sense of stability. Iambic meter refers to multiple pairs of syllables in which the first one is unstressed and the second one is stressed. So far so good. BUT, from the very start of the poem, the supposed Iambic Meter is REVERSED. A-pril, IS-the, CRUE-llest BREE-ding, LY-lacs etc So what's up with that?
IMO it's to further that same instability. If it were just in iambic pentameter in the beginning the casual ear wouldn't feel anything differently than they do any other time they hear that pattern. So Eliot uses trochees to reverse that iambic and make the audience clue in immediately that there's an off atmosphere, it similar enough to iambic pentameter that it passes but it's just barely off
This is a sublime poem. But Elliot is not the best reader for this in my opinion. The other readers are all better. It means nothing but it is interesting.
Surely somebody has already mentioned this (I'm not trolling through comments to confirm it): but that's Ted Hughes reading at c. 1:10, not T.S. Eliot.
Arthur y do u like this poem a lot? I never understood this poetry. My father used to bring his grand man violets he said to be nice she died in 1951. I heard a quote "Forgiveness is the scent a violet sheds on the HEEL that has crushed it." What does it mean I don't get it
like Eliot, I heartily recommend Jessie Weston's Ritual to Romance [1920] which as Eliot said is essential to understand The Wasteland [1922], but then why'd he refuse to translate his many lines of french, latin, greek etc at the page bottoms or at the very least in his footnotes to the Wasteland?
Thanks for the recommendation. Its pretty arrogant and elitist not to translate. Nabokov put a lot of French in Lolita - which I just read - with no translations. As mentioned I speak Chinese and a little Chichewa - an African Bantu language. If I did not translste these people would be upset. Why is French different? Because at the time no doubt the intelligensia in Europe and America were meant to know French. Academia has always been littered with elitists. But that doesnt mean they can be dismissed, or even that they are not good peoole. Its just a product of time and environment. I too have my own unpleasant and unsympatheric foibles. The Wasteland is an epic masterpiece. Eliot - like Joyce - packs it full of allusions to history and other literature. Whats wrong with that? Its worth finding out what the references allude to. Elliot certainly had something to say and said it magnificantly.
It was written for the educated. In future footnotes will not suffice, pictures will be be necessary -perhaps Western culture is doomed to hieroglyphs.
@@colinellesmere That's a pretty one-note reading of The Waste Land. Eliot translated plenty of the foreign lines and references in the poem, ie- "unreal city" is an allusion to Baudelaire's "fourmillante cîté"; "I had not thought death had undone so many" a line translated from Inferno. Many Modernist writings defined themselves as multilingual spaces for sonorous effect, to convey an impression of the speaker in the text, or to make a point about their own reading. Writing it off as elitism is simplistic at best.
it took me a few times to read and re-read it, when I realized he was talking about the shelling, and distant sounds of shelling, and how afterward everything is silent absolutely silent... also the thirst for water I wonder if that's related to gas/chemical weapons?
I like how the poem is presented like a dialogue between three oracles/voices,reminds me of the Gospel reading of Christ's Passion and death during Holy Week...
I'd prefer hearing Eliot's voice all the way through. It's amazing how different it sounds with a different voice reading. Like a different performer of a piece of music. The second voice is far too pretentious and I lost interest immediately after he chimed in.
Victor Grauer I agree. I always prefer to heer the voice of the poet himself. (sadly, only the modern poets) a good example is Ezra Pound, the way he reads his poems.
stayloosebob I agree Eliot does a good job himself. Paul Scofield did an excellent reading of Four Quartets as well. It's on RU-vid but broken up into lots of short videos. My preference is for Scofield's reading of F.Q. over Eliot's own on balance. But that's just my taste
The Waste Land BY T. S. ELIOT 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 arch-duke’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!”
Hi everyone! I am currently studying this text and it is brilliant! I am completely mazed by it! I have a question though, why are some parts ready by a lady? and who is this lady?
I'm trying to listen to this book for a class and I don't get wtf is the point of this book or how this relates to the modernism section of books in our class.
اقرا كثيرا في الليل واسافر الى الجنوب في الشتاء ....هل تعرف اللاشيئ ، هل تتذكر اللاشيئ ؟ ....على رمال ( ماركيت ) اربط اللاشيئ باللاشيئ .....ارى حشودا تسير في دائرة ....( كورليونس ) المحطم .....(( ايها القارئ ، صديقي ، شبيهي ، ايها المنافق )) ...
This volume includes the full contents of Prufrock and other poems (1917) Poems (1920) and the waste land (1922) Together with an informative introduction and a selection of background material. First and foremost, the protagonist is starring right at you in this tutorial, which to me, indicates a plea for incentive, never mind the during or after, it should cost you and you. Whether, the combustion is costing you highly, he shou shou's you for him alone. Lisa
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
Genius awakens Genius... Light delights in Light... Did you know that T.S.Eliot was awakened to his poetic 'mission' in life by reading Edward FitzGeralds world famous poem The Ruba'iya't of Omar Khayya'm ? Charles Mugleston Omar Khayyam Theatre Company
A season is a metaphor... The worlds are, measures of facts in themselves yet the beings we know to consider in their dawning are confirmation of the eternally problematic..
Not easy for born into American English did not make the poem easier, fear not. I was never taught how to dissect poetry, making too many more than difficult. I take what I need and leave the rest - as in all of Life, imnsho.
line 135 at 8:22, "The hot water at ten." Is that when they receive hot water, like they order it and it's delivered? Those were the good days, wasn't it? What, do they take like three showers a day? lol
