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The Waste Land

Page 20

by T. S. Eliot


  273 wash] H; wash, C, D

  278–279 leialala | Elizabeth] D, H; leialala | [blank line] | Elizabeth C

  286 Southwest] H; South-west C, D

  287 down stream] D, H; down-stream C

  300 Sands.] D, H; Sands, C

  303 fingernails] H; finger-nails C, D

  h i s t o r i c a l c o l l a t i o n

  1 3 1

  313 swell] D, H; swell, C

  316 deep sea] D, H; deep-sea C

  318–319 whirlpool. | Gentile] D, H; whirlpool. | [blank line] | Gentile C

  319 Jew] D, H; Jew, C

  322 torchlight] C, H; torch-light D

  335 water we should stop and drink] C, H; water amongst the rock D

  339 mountain] C, D, H; mount in B

  345 mudcracked] H; mud-cracked C, D

  345–346 houses | If ] D, H; houses | [blank line] | If C

  346–358 [lines indented]; [flush left] C, D, H

  356 pine trees] D, H; pine-trees C

  358 no water] D, H; no water. C

  363 wrapt] C, D; wrapped H

  365 —But] D, H; But C

  366 air] D, H; air,

  370–371 only | What] D, H; only | [blank line] | What C

  383 Tolling] D, H; Telling C

  388 home,] D, H; home C; home. B

  391 rooftree] roof-tree C, D, H

  401 Datta:] D, H; Datta: C

  401 what] D, H; What C

  411 Dayadhvam:] D, H; Dayadhvam: C

  415 aethereal] C, F; aetherial B, D, H

  418 Damyata:] D, H; Damyata: C

  419 oar] D, H; oar. C

  420 calm,] D, H; calm; C

  425 set] D, H; see C

  426–427 down | Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli aªna | Quando fiam ceu chelidon] H; down | [blank line] | Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli aªna | Quando fiam ceu chelidon C; down | [blank line] | Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli aªna | Quando fiam ceu chelidon D; down | Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli aªna | Quando fiam uti chelidon 1936

  429–430 Le Prince . . . à la tour abolie | These] D; Le Prince . . . à la tour abolie | [blank line] | These H; Le Prince . . . de la tour abolie | These C

  432 Datta . . . Damyata.] C, H; Datta . . . Damyata. D

  433 Shantih shantih shantih] D, H; shantih shantih shantih C

  1 3 2

  h i s t o r i c a l c o l l a t i o n

  Notes

  Notes are omitted from C, D.

  [Introductory note] Cambridge F; Macmillan B, H

  [Introductory note] will immediately recognise] will immediately recognize H

  [Introductory note] Adonis, Attis, Osiris] Atthis Adonis Osiris B, H

  23. Cf. Ecclesiastes XII, v.] H omits

  31. V. Tristan und Isolde] ed.; 31. Tristan und Isolde B, H

  60. Cf. Baudelaire: | “Fourmillante . . . | “Où . . . passant.”] 60. Cf Baudelaire: |

  Fourmillante . . . | Où . . . passant. H

  63. Cf. Inferno] ed.; 63. Cf. Inferno B, H

  [Note to l. 63] “di . . . | “che] di . . . | che B, H

  64. Cf. Inferno IV, 25–] ed.; 64. Cf. Inferno 25– B 64. Cf. Inferno IV, 2v– H

  [Note to l. 64] “Quivi . . . | “non . . . | “che . . . tremare”] Quivi . . . | non . . . | che

  . . . tremare] H

  [Note to l. 64] pianto, ma’] pianto ma] H

  [Note to l. 92] “dependent . . . vincunt.”] ed.; dependent . . . vincunt B, H

  [Note to l. 100] III, l.] ed.; III l. B, H

  [Note to l. 115] III, l.] ed.; III l. B, H

  126. Cf. Part I, ll. 37, 48.] ed.; 126. Cf. Part I l. 37, 48. B; H omits 138. Cf. the game . . . Women Beware Women] ed.; 138. Cf. the game . . . Women beware Women B, H

  196. Cf. Marvell . . . | 197. Cf. Day . . . ] 196. Cf. Day . . . | 197. Cf. Marvell . . . B, H

  [Note to l. 197 (final ellipsis is Eliot’s)] “When . . . | “A . . . | “Actaeon . . . | “Where

  . . . skin . . .”] When . . . | A . . . | Actaeon . . . | Where . . . skin . . . H

  [Note to l. 196] “To His Coy Mistress”] ed.; To His Coy Mistress B, H

  [Note to l. 202] “Parsifal”] ed.; Parsifal B, H

  [Note to l. 218 (opening ellipsis is Eliot’s)] et “maior . . . | . . . maribus,” dixisse,

  “voluptas.”] ed.; et maior . . . | . . . maribus’, dixisse, ‘voluptas.’ B, H

  [Note to line 218] “est . . . plagae,” | . . . “ut . . . | . . . feriam!”] ed.; ‘est . . . plagae,’ |

  . . . ‘ut . . . | . . . feriam!’ B, H

  [Note to l. 264] Churches] ed.; Churches: B, H

  [Note to l. 266] Götterdämmerung] Götterdämmerung H

  [Note to l. 266] Rhine-daughters] ed.; Rhinedaughters B, H

  [Note to l. 279] 279] ed.; 276 H

  [Note to l. 279] Elizabeth, ] ed.; Elizabeth B, H

  [Note to l. 357] unequaled] unequalled H

  [Note to ll. 366–376] in heiligem] ed.; im heiligem B, H

  [Note to l. 401] sympathise] sympathize H

  [Note to l. 401] Brihadaranyaka-Upanishad] H; Brihadaranyaka—Upanishad B

  [Note to l. 407] “Ere . . . | “Make . . .] ed.; Ere . . . | Make . . . B, H

  [Note to l. 411] “all’orribile] ed.; all’orribile B, H

  [Note to l. 429] Gérard] ed.; Gerard B, H

  [Note to l. 429] “El Desdichado”] ed.; El Desdichado B, H

  [Note to l. 356] 356] ed.; 357 B, H

  [Note to l. 359] 359] ed.; 360 B, H

  [Note to ll. 365–375] 365–75] ed.; 366–76 B, H

  e l i o t ’ s c o n t e m p o r a r y p r o s e

  l o n d o n l e t t e r , m a r c h 1921 1

  The Two Stupidities

  I take up this task of writing a London letter with an overwhelming sense

  of diªculty. As I first proposed it to myself, there was no diªculty at all:

  it was to mention any work, or any momentary appearance of intellect or

  feeling, which seemed to deserve mention, to use any opportunity to con-

  sider the writing of living authors whom I respect, and to construct such

  a portrait of the time as might be in my power. Then I reflected that there

  is in contemporary English literature a very great deal which I cordially

  detest; and that I could not make an honest portrait without calling atten-

  tion to these things. Yet I recognized that by so doing I might arouse the

  glee, and draw upon myself the approval, of exactly that part of American

  opinion which I abominate. One must face the fact that the imbeciles on

  either side of the water are very glad and quite able to perceive, by that

  sort of hostile sympathy which exists only among members of the same

  family, the imbecilities of the great fraternity on the other side; and that

  this perception only confirms them in their own variety of stupidity. I can

  claim no great originality in diagnosing either of the two stupidities; the

  only possible originality is in their collocation. There is Mr. Mencken, a

  brilliant specialist in American depravity, whose last book I have read with

  strong admiration.2 And only recently, when I mentioned, rather gently

  as I thought, a very conspicuous feature of English stupidity, I was gaped

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  e l i o t ’ s c o n t e m p o r a r y p r o s e

  at by one of the smaller English reviewers, for my words of “elegant an-

  guish.”3 It pleased me to reflect that a critic of the same stripe had once

  referred to Matthew Arnold as an “elegant Jeremiah”; although this coinci-

  dence merely proved the immortality of the English reviewer, and not any

  similarity between Matthew Arnold and myself.4 However, if these letters

  succeed in being written with any competence, I am almost certain to be-

  come an object of
international execration; a disaster in which I pray very

  vigorously that The Dial may not share.

  Prolegomena to Poetry

  Mr. Harold Monro has just produced a book entitled Some Contemporary

  Poets: 1920, which is a particularly useful book for my horrid purpose.5 It is, I hope, no injustice to Mr. Monro to say that his book has every appearance of having been written to order. We have all written books to order,

  or we have conceived the desire, at times of penury, of being asked to write

  a book to order, and some moralists tell us that desire is as sinful as com-

  mission. But the peculiar e¤ect of Mr. Monro’s labours appears to be, that

  everything in contemporary poetry (1920) is reduced to a precise level of

  flatness. Our judgement is thus left free, if unguided. It is to be wondered

  that the “general reading public,” to whom its publishers say it should ap-

  peal, and who can hardly be other than a small section of what Arnold

  called the Philistines, will make of it.6 Some of the poets whom Mr. Monro

  chats about are dull, some are immature, some are slight, some are down-

  right bad: Mr. Monro’s e¤ect is to make them all seem dull, immature,

  slight, and bad. And some are good, but we do not get that impression

  from the book.

  The first suggestion which this book gives me is that what I may call

  the centre of gravity of dulness lies, in America and England, at di¤erent

  points. Nearly the whole body of the Established Church of contemporary

  literature in America must appear a little ridiculous, if no worse, to even

  the most latitudinarian littérateurs of Established contemporary literature in England. I cannot conceive Mr. Edmund Gosse, for example, really being taken in by the e¤usions of Miss Repplier or the Reverend Mr. Crothers,

  although I can conceive of his commending them with a kindly Olympian

  patronage which might take in the recipients.7 The Polite Essay is, in fact,

  done rather better in England, and this truth is not reserved for a few pro-

  found minds. Nevertheless the Established Church of literature does occa-

  l o n d o n l e t t e r , m a r c h 19 2 1

  1 3 7

  sionally patronize, with the semblance of enthusiasm, American literature

  which happens to amuse it. It is creditable that Spoon River should for a

  time have aroused interest here; unfortunately, its success has been more

  lately duplicated by the poetry of Mr. Vachel Lindsay.8 His apparent “Ameri-

  canism” and vigorous freedom from shame about his simple tastes amuse

  the orthodox, while his Y.M.C.A. morality represents something more re-

  mote than a massacre in Armenia.9 His verses have appeared in an English

  periodical.10 But I cannot believe that he is treated with more respect than

  that with which Clemenceau and Lloyd George bonified President Wilson.11

  One must therefore reject the belief that there is any near equivalent

  in England for the Reverend Mr. Crothers, or Lindsay, or Mr. Mabie, or

  that there is any exact parallel anywhere between English life and American

  life (though there are constant curious resemblances when one has ceased

  to expect them).12 And the standards by which one disposes of American

  bad writing and English bad writing will not be the same. The conventional

  literature of America is either wretchedly imitative of European culture,

  or ignorant of it, or both; and by this standard one easily expels either

  the Reverend Mr. Crothers, with his parish tea-party wit, his dreadful Non-

  conformity, or Mr. David Graham Phillips, with his exploitation of the

  Noble Fallen Woman who, in England, has vanished into the underworld

  of romance.13 But there is no simple international comparison of cultures

  by which to deal so easily with, let us say, Mr. John Drinkwater.14 I cannot

  point to any existing society which produces finer average specimens than

  Mr. Drinkwater; I can only point to a few individuals in England; and it

  is always open to Mr. Drinkwater’s admirers to protest that my few indi-

  viduals are impostors. The most obvious thing to say, the thing which

  makes it diªcult for the critic to say more, is that the work of Mr. Drink-

  water is dull, supremely dull. But when one turns to view the work of a

  numerous host of Drinkwaters, incipient Drinkwaters, decayed Drink-

  waters, cross-bred Drinkwaters, this adjective ceases to satisfy the intelli-

  gence. Any social phenomenon of such dimensions must present more

  interest than that.

  I do not make the mistake of supposing that Keats, or Shelley, or

  Wordsworth, or Tennyson can be incriminated in the production of the

  Georgian Anthology.15 Good poets may usually have a bad influence, but

  their influence is usually much more restricted. I cannot see in the Geor-

  gian Anthology any such influence as Wordsworth, Keats, and Shelley

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  e l i o t ’ s c o n t e m p o r a r y p r o s e

  had upon Arnold, Tennyson, and Browning. The dulness of the Georgian

  Anthology is original, unique; we shall find its cause in something much

  more profound than the influence of a few predecessors. The subtle spirit

  inspiring the ouija-board of Mr. J. C. Squire’s patient prestidigitators is

  not the shattered Keats but the solid and eternal Podsnap himself.16 This

  party represents, in fact, the insurgent middle class, Mr. Monro’s General

  Reading Public. At the very moment when the middle class appears to be

  on the point of perdition—beleaguered by a Coalition Government, the

  Three Trades-Unions, and the Income Tax—at this very moment it enjoys

  the triumph, in intellectual matters, of being able to respect no other stan-

  dards than its own.17 And indeed, while its citadels appear to topple, it is

  busy strengthening its foundations. Year by year, royal birth-day by royal

  birth-day, it gains more seats in the House of Lords; and on the other

  hand, if it rejects with contumely the independent man, the free man, all

  the individuals who do not conform to a world of mass-production, the

  Middle Class finds itself on one side more and more approaching identity

  with what used to be called the Lower Class. Both middle class and lower

  class are finding safety in Regular Hours, Regular Wages, Regular Pensions,

  and Regular Ideas. In other words, there will soon be only one class, and

  the second Flood is here.

  This social evolution is not, of course, peculiarly British, and I am ready

  to admit that it may have more revolting forms elsewhere. I have no wish

  to dwell upon the subject; I only introduced it as a background to the Geor-

  gian Anthology. I do not wish either to dwell upon the dulness of this

  book; that the writers cannot help. What I wish to comment on is the ex-

  treme lack of culture on the part of a number of writers in prose and verse;

  and when I say this I hear already the repeated epithets of “elegant an-

  guish,” and “dusty face,” and “précieux ridicule” with which my eªcient

  clipping-bureau has lately refreshed me.18 I am prepared to be accused,

  so unconscious is the humour of the multitude, of self-advertisement. But

  it is certain that culture does not reside solely in a university education, or

  in extensive reading; and it is doubtful whether culture is perc
eptibly devel-

  oped by a busy life of journalism. A literature without any critical sense;

  a poetry which takes not the faintest notice of the development of French

  verse from Baudelaire to the present day, and which has perused English

  literature with only a wandering antiquarian passion, a taste for which

  everything is either too hot or too cold; there is no culture here. Culture

  l o n d o n l e t t e r , m a r c h 19 2 1

  1 3 9

  is traditional, and loves novelty; the General Reading Public knows no tra-

  dition, and loves staleness. And it must not be supposed that this great

  middle class public which consumes Georgian poetry corresponds to the

  public of Mrs. Ella Wheeler Wilcox.19 I intend no disrespect to that lady,

  whose verse I have read with ease and some pleasure. The Georgian public

  is a smallish but important public, it is that o¤ensive part of the middle

  class which believes itself superior to the rest of the middle class; and su-

  perior for precisely this reason that it believes itself to possess culture.

  Returning to Mr. Monro’s book, we find a number of poets, a very

  small number, who cannot simply be described as purveyors to the General

  Reading Public. There is Mr. Nichols, who is too nimble to be dull, and

  who is very immature; if he could free himself from the circumambient

  vulgarity and in several ways forget himself, he might rise to a superior

  place.20 Then there is the curious spectacle of Mr. Huxley, one of the very

  few who have experienced the influence of Laforgue, and who writes (I

  believe it is no secret) one of the brightest pages in the Athenaeum; before he has thoroughly worked out Laforgue into a perfect language of his own,

  he skews o¤ into “Leda,” which, although the work of a much more sophisti-

  cated temperament than Mr. Squire’s, is really a concession to the creamy

  top of the General Reading Public.21 There is Miss Sitwell.22 She is tediously

  given to repeating herself, but this repetition is perhaps her consciousness

  of the fact that she has a genuine little vision of the age, quite her own.

  This peculiar way of seeing things, which is not capable of much develop-

  ment, is what is interesting; not her technique, which is insuªcient. And

  individually, there are poems by Mr. Herbert Read and Mr. Aldington

  which endure.23 But what is good (on looking over for the last time Mr.

 

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