The Wasteland

Welcome partners to Cowboy Classics with Scott Paladin. Our work tonight the Wasteland for once I saw with my own own eyes the sybil of Kame hanging in a cage. And when the boy said, Sibil, what do you want? She replied I want to die. Part One the Burial Of The Dead april is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land mix in memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering earth and forgetful snow, feeding a little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Star and Brittered Sea with a shower of rain. We stopped in the Colonnade and went on in sunlight into the off garden and drank coffee and talk for an hour. Bengara Khan and mercen Stymhouse, the town echtitech. And when we were children staying at the Arch Dukes, my cousins, he took me out on a sled and I was frightened. He said, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went in the mountains. There you feel free. I read much of the night. I go south in 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 trees gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, and the dress 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. Firvind der hai Matzu, my Nirishkind Vovirst, who gave me highacinths first a year ago they called me the Hyacinth girl. Yeah. 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 owed under Lear dustmere. Madame Cisrous famous Clairvoyant had a bad cold. Nevertheless is known to be the wisest woman in Europe with a wicked bag of cards. Here, said she, is your card. The drowned Phoenician sailor. Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look, here is Belladonna, lady of the rocks, lady of situations. Here is the man with three Staves. And here is the wheel. And here is the one eyed merchant in 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 the ring. Thank you. If you see dear Miss Echo Tone, tell her I bring the horoscope myself. One must be so careful these days. Unreal city. Under the brown fog of winter dawn, a crowd flowed over London ridge. So many I had not thought death had undone so many. Size short and frequent work sailed, and each man fixed his eyes. Before his feet flowed a bill and down King William Street to where Saint Mary wilnh kept the hours with a dead sound and the final stroke of nine, here I saw one I knew and stopped him crying. Stetson, you who were with me in the ships at Malai, that corpse you planted last year in your garden has begun to sprout. Will it bloom this year? Or as the sudden frost disturbed its bed oh, keep the dog farhance, that's friend of men or with his nails he'll dig it up again. You hypocrite. Lecture mon symbol frere part Two a Game of Chess the chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, glowed on the marble, where the glass held up by the standards wrought with fruited vines, from which a golden cupidin peeped out another hid his eyes. Behind his wing doubled the flames of seven branch candelabra, reflecting the light upon the table as the glitter of her jewels rose to meet it. From satin cases poured in rich profusion and vials of ivory and colored glass unstoppered lurked her strained synthetic perfumes. Undue went bowdered, her liquid troubled, confused and drowned the sense of odors stirred by the air that freshened from the window. These ascended in the flattening, prolonged candle flames flung their smoke into the lac area, stirring the pattern. On the coffered ceiling hung seawood fed with copper, burned green and orange, framed by the colored stone, in which sad light a carved dolphin swam above the antique mantle was displayed as though a window gave upon the Silven scene a change of filamel 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, jugged, 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 fire light, under the brush, her hair spread out in fire points, glowed into words, and 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 were thinking. Think. I think we are in Rats Valley, 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 pearls that were his eyes. Are you alive or not? Is there nothing in your head but that chickspearean rag? It's so elegant, so intelligent. What should I do now? What shall I do? I rush out as I am and walk the streets 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 the mob and I said I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself, Hurry up, please, it's time now. Albert's coming back. Make yourself a bit smart. He'll want to know what you've done with the money he gave you to get yourself some teeth, he did. I was there. You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice sort, he said. I swear I can't bear to look at you. And no more can't, I said. And think of poor Albert. He'd been in the army for four years. He wants a good time. And if you don't give it to him, there's others will, I said. Oh, is there? She said. Some of that, I said. Then I'll know who to think, she said, and give me a straight look. Hurry up, please, it's 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 31. I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face. It's some 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 didn't want children? Hurry up, please. It's time. Well, that Sunday Albert was home and they had a hot gamut and they asked me into dinner. So to get the beauty of it hot. Hurry up, please. It's time. Hurry up, please, it's time. Good night, Bill. Good night, Lou. Good night, May. Good night, Tata. Good night. Good night. Good night, ladies. Good night, sweet ladies. Good night. Good night. Part Three the Fire Sermon the River's tent is broken. The last fingers of a leaf clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind crosses the brown land unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames runs softly till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich paper, 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 lemon I sat and wept sweet Tims, run softly till I end my song. Sweet tims run softly before I speak, not loud or long, but at my back in a cold blast, I hear the rattle of the bones and the chuckle spread from year to year. errat 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 Gas House 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 garrett rattled by the rat's foot only year to year. And on my back from time to time, I hear the sound of horns and motors which shall bring Sweeney to Miss Porter in the spring. O, the moon shone bright on Miss Porter and on her daughter. They wash their feet in soda water at O sevoa de faunt chant de la copo twitt twit twit jug chug chug, chug chug so rudely forced to real unreal city under the brown of a winter noon. Mr. Eugenides Smearing, a merchant unshaven with a pocket full of currents CIF London documents its site, asked me in mimonic French to luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel, followed by a weekend at the Metropolis. At the violet hour when the eyes and back turned upward from the deck, when the human engine waits like a taxi throbbin waitin ay tiracius though blind, throbbing between two lives, old man with wrinkled femaled breasts can see at the violet hour the evening hour that strives homeward and brings the sailor home from sea. And brings the sailor home from sea. The typist home at teatime clears her breakfast, lights her stove and lays out food and tents out of the window. Perilously spread or die in combinations touched by the sun's last rays on the Devon or piled at night her bed stockings, slippers, camisoles and stays tyracius old man with wrinkled dugs perceived the scene and foretold the rest. I too awaited the expected guest. He the young man carbuncular arrives, small house agents, 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 has ended. She is bored and tired, endeavors to engage her in caresses which still are unreproved of undesired. Flushed and decided, he assaults all at once, exploring hands, encountered no defense, his vanity requires no response and makes a welcome of indifference. And I, dear Cus, have for suffered all enacted on this same diviner bed I who have sat by thieves below the wall and walked among the lowest of the dead, bestows one final patronize and kiss and gropes his way. Finding the stairs and lit, she turns and looks a moment in the glass hardly away or of her departed lover. Her brain allows one half formed thought to pass. Well, now that's done, and I'm glad it's over. When lovely woman stoops to folly and paces about her room again alone, she smooths her hair with automatic hand and puts a record on the grammar phone. This music crept by me upon the waters and along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street. Oh, city, city I can sometimes hear beside a public bar in lower Tam Street the pleasant whining of a mandolin, and the clatter and chatter from within, where fishmen lounge at noon, where the walls of Magnus martyr hold inexplicable splendor of Ionian white and gold. The river sweats oil and tar, the barges drift with the turning tide red sails wide to leewards swing on the heavy spar, the barges wash drifting logs down Greenwich reach, past the Isle of Dogs, whale Elizabeth and Leicester beaten oars the stern was formed a gilded shell, red and gold, the brisk swell river both shore. Southwest wind carried down the stream the peal of bells, white towers, whale Allah, Leia, Wala, Leia Lala. Trams and dusty trees highbury bore me Richmond and Kew and did me by richmond I raised my knees upon on the floor of a narrow canoe. My feet were at morgate, 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's Sands? I can connect nothing with nothing, the broken fingernails of dirty hands, my people, humble people who expect nothing. To Carthage then I came burning, burning, burning. O Lord, thou pluckest me out. O Lord, thou pluckest burning. Part Four death By Water blubbus the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, forgot the city of Gulls and the deep sea swell and the profit and loss. A current under sea picked his bones and whispers as he rose and fell. He passed the stages of his age and youth entering the whirlpool gentile or Jew. O you turn the wheel and looked to winward. Consider Flebus, who was once handsome and tall as you. Part Five what Thunder Said after the Torchlight read on sweaty faces, after the varrosty silence in the gardens, after the agony and stony blazes, the shouting and the crying, prison in 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 little patience. Here is no water, but only rock, rock and no water. In the sandy road, the road wind and above, and 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 curious 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 mountains but red sullen faces sneer and snarl from doors of mud cracked 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 the dry grass singing but the 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. And when I look ahead of the wide road, there is always another walking beside you glide in, wrapped in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or woman but who is that on the other side of you? What is that sound in the air murmur of maternal lamentation? Who are those hooded hordes swarming over the endless pains stumbling and cracked earth ring by the flat horizon only? What is the city? Over the mountains cracks and reforms and burst in the violet air fallen towers jerusalem, Athens, alexandria Vienna, london unreal, a woman drew her long black hair out tied and fiddled whispered music on those strings and bats with baby faces in the violet light whistled and beat their wings and crawled headed downward down a blackened wall and upside down an 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 roof tree co rico, rico, rico and a flash of lightning and a damp gust bringing rain. Ganga was sunken and the limp leaves waiting for rain all the black clouds gathered far distant over him event the jungle crouched humped in silence. Then spoke the thunder duh duh. What have we given my friend? Blood shaking in 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 that 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 ethereal rumors revive for a moment a broken coriolinas. The Miata the boat responded gaily to the hand expert with sail and ore the sea was calm your heart would have responded gaily when invited, beating obedient to controlling hands a set upon the shore fishing with the airplane behind me, shall I at least sit my lands in order? London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down boys accuse Fako chili Afina kondo fiam kyo Jalandon swallow. Swallow. Le prince the antique and la Prince de aquaten allah tor unbolay these fragments I have shored against my ruins. Why then I'll fit you harana mo mad again the tabam demiata shanty shanty Shantiya. Notes on the Wasteland not only the title but the plan, and a good deal of incidental symbolism of the poem were suggested by Miss Jesse L. Weston's book on the Greyal legend, from Ritual to Romance McMillan, Cambridge. Indeed, so deeply am I indebted. Miss Weston's book will elucidate difficulties of the poem much better than my notes can do, and I recommend it, apart from the greater interest of the book itself, to any who think such elucidation of the poem worth the trouble to another work of anthropology, I am dead in general, one which has influenced our generation profoundly. I mean The Golden Bow I have used especially two volumes adonas addis of Cyrus. Anyone who was acquainted with these works will immediately recognize in the poem certain references to vegetation ceremonies. One. The Burial of Dead Line 20. CF. Ezekiel 21 23. CF. Ecclesiastes Twelve. 531 VI Tristan undisolda One versus five through 842. ID. Three, verse 24 46. I am not familiar with the exact constitution of the tarot pack of cards from which I have obviously departed to suit my own convenience. The hang man, a member of the traditional back, fits my purpose in two ways because he is associated in my mind with the hang god of Fraser, and because I associate him with the hooded figure in the passage of disciples to a mouse. In part Five, the phoenician sailor in the Merchant appeared later also the crowds of people and death by water is executed. In part four, the man with Three Staves, an authentic member of the tarot pack, I associate quite arbitrarily with the Fisher King himself. 60 CF. Bodolayer Formulante site site planes de rebes o the spectatorIn Plan jor racheau Rakosh le Pasant. 63 CF. Inferno, 355 through seven silangatrada digende gio nana rai macroducuto j morte tante navas despata. 64 CF. Inferno, 425 through seven guvy segundo Chapero escotara nana villa piano machi desperi chi Laura eterna Fakama tramare. 68, a phenomenon which I have often noticed. 74 CF. The dirge and Webster's white devil. 76. The bodilyer pre face. Two floors, the mall. Two. A game of chess. 77 c. F anthony and Cleopatra. 2211-9092 lacquerra v. Aniad, 1726 Dependent lichny lacuerabus oweris insensi et noctum flamis funalia vincent. 98. Sylvan, scene V milton Paradise Lost 4140. 99 v ovid metamorphosis six filamela. 100 CF. Part 3124. 115. CF. Part Three, 1195. 118. CF. Webster. Is the wind in that door still? 126 CF. Part 113748. 130 at CF. The game of Chest and Middleton's women beware women three the Fire sermon 176 v. Spencer Profalamion. 192. CF. The tempest one 2196. CF. Marvel to his koi mistress. 197 CF. Day Parliament of Bees when of the sudden listening you shall hear a noise of horns and hunting, which shall bring a tear to Diana in the spring, where all shall see her naked skin. 199 I do not know the origin of the ballot from which these lines are taken. It was reported to me from Sydney, Australia, 02:02 v Verlain parcel. 210 the currents were crowded at a price carriage and insurance fee to London and the bill of Laden et cetera were to be handed to the buyer upon payment of the site draft. 210 carriage and insurance, free cost and insurance and freight editor. 218 terraceus, although a mere spectator and not indeed a character, is yet the most important personage in the poem, uniting all the rest. Just as the one eyed merchant seller of currents melts into the phoenician sailor, and the latter is not wholly distinct from the Ferdinand Prince of Naples, so all the women are one woman and the two sexes meet in Terraceus. What Terraceus sees in fact, is the substance of the poem. The whole passage from Ovid is of great anthropological interest. Kum YAMone Yokas et maorr vestra perfecto est kwam qui contingent maribus exese voluptus ila Nagat lacuit que sitzintia doctri ferrari tricia winus weak erat utra NOTA nam duo magnoran woodridi quantum silva Capore spentorum bracula wiolawarat iktu decoy weiro factos mirabali feminist septum agarrett atomnos octawo reustam wheat et est westrey. Sit down. Potentia plage dixit UT OctAus sortom in contrarian mutet Nukko quei woesweremques and guebas istan for a prior reddit winet de wache wint imalgo arbiter hick ikidor suptos de lite yokasa Victor yeois Vermont gravis Saturnal. Yosto neck pro materia frater delosukwe yodicus eternal denawit newman, Enochatre. Omnipotence neckwei enem like it? Imrita quiquam faktade Fakasi deo proloumene adamto skiere futura the dead poem naquay lavawit onare. 121 this may not appear as exact as Safos lions, but it had in my mind a long shore or dory fritureman who returns in nightfall. 253. V. Goldsmith, the song of the Vicar of Wakefield. 257 v. The Tempest as above. 264 the interior of St. Magnus murder is to my mind one of the finest among ren's interiors. See the proposed demolition of the 19th City Church's PS. King and Son Limited. 166 the Song of the Three Thames Daughters begins here from line 292 to 306 inclusive. They speak in turn. V gadda damarung. Three. One. The Rhine daughters. 279 V fraud Elizabeth. Volume One, chapter Four. Letter to Decade, letter of the Quadra to Philip of Spain. In the afternoon we were in a barge watching the games on the river. The Queen was alone with the Lord Robert and myself on the Poop when they began to talk nonsense and went so far that Lord Robert at last said as I was on the spot, there was no reason why that should not be married if the Queen pleased. 293 CF. Purgatorio v. 133 recorded he de may jay son la PIA siana mafe desvakimi marima three two st. Augustine's Confessions to Karsovich then I came, where a cauldron of unholy love sang about all mine ears. 308 the complete text of the Buddhist Fire Sermon, which corresponds in the importance of the Sermon of the Mount from which these words are taken will be found translated in the late Henry Clark Warren's Buddhism in Translation, Harvard Oriental Series. Mr. Warren was one of the great pioneers of Buddhist studies in the Occident 309 from St. Augustine's Confession. Again a collection of these two representatives of Eastern and Western Acidism as the culmination of this part of the poem is not an accident. Five what the Thunder Said in the first part of Art five three themes are employed the journey to a mouse, the approach of the chapel perilous see Miss Weston's book and the Present Decay of Eastern Europe. 357. This is Tartus N Oloka Shakai Palace, the hermit thrutch which I have heard in Quebec County. Chapman says Handbook of the Birds of Eastern North America. It is most at home in the secluded woodlands of thickety retreats. Its notes are not remarkable for a variety of volume, but impurity and sweetness of tone and exquisite modulation. They are unequaled. Its water dripping song is justly celebrated. 360 the following lines were simulated by the account of one of the Antarctic expedition I forget which, but I think one of Shackleton's. It was related to that party of explorers that the extremity of their strength had a constant delusion that there was one more member than could actually be counted. 366 76 CF. Herman Hess Blickens chaos shown is HALBURY ropa shown IST zumindist der halba austin Europus alfdem Vegas um chaos far to betrankin m halagam von amgund intlang unzinsk dan zoo sinc patronken umhaimish vibe dmitri Kasimov sang uber diesel leader Locke there Berger Balicda their haila gair hout zmit thraning 401 data deadwamaya give sympathize control. The fable of the meaning of the Thunder is found in Brhedar brihada Daranyaka upanishad five one a translation is found in Dusen's Zajik upanashad les Valda, page 489. Four seven C. F wester. The White Devil. Five, six they remarry air the worm, piece your wind and sheet, air the spider make a thin curtain from your epitaphs. Four one one CF. And Ferna 33 46 at eosinte chiaravar lulschio esoto al oraballe dore also FH. Bradley appearance in Reality, page 346. My external sensations are no less private to myself than are my thoughts and feelings. In either case, my experience falls within my own circle, a circle closed on the outside and with all its elements alike. Every sphere is opaque to the others which surround it. In brief, regarded as an existence which appears in a soul, the whole world breaches, peculiar and private to that soul. 424 v. West infirm Ritual to Romance chapter on the Fisher King. 427 V purgatorio 26 148 r o wos procara equalam Walar quay wos guide al sam de lascalina sewage no woes Tempte Medola poi sakosi nell foco j le a finne 428 V pervigolium veneeris c f filomella in parts. Two and 3429 V Girard de naval sonnet l de descado 431 V Kids Spanish Tragedy 433 Shanti repeated as here a formal ending to upanishad the peach which passeth understanding it is a feeble translation of the content of this word. Thank you for joining us for Cowboy Classics with Scott Paladin. Our work tonight was The Wasteland by T. S. Elliott. Read, directed and Edited by Scott Paladin audio copyright 2023 Scott Paladin I picked this one before I realized I was going to have to be speaking a lot of Latin and German in a Texas accent. You?