Reading Eliot's Waste Land, Lines 69-76
With a preface translation from Baudelaire's Flowers of Evil
To the Reader:
Stupidity, error, sin and stinginess busy our minds and grind our bodies down,
And we, like beggars nourishing their lice, keep our remorse in comfort and well-fed.
Our sins are stubborn, our confessions weak; we take admissions, we demand a price;
Then, with a smile, we’re on our muddy way believing that cheap tears will make us clean.
We rest our heads upon an evil pillow with Trismegiste Satan at the cradle,
And in the vapor of his chemistry we lose the heavy metal of our will,
And with the Devil as our babysitter charming us with his repulsive toys,
Each day we’re lured another step away from fear, into the dark and stench of hell.
And like the poor bum who would kiss and nibble the battered nipple of an ancient whore
We steal the secret pleasures of our passing and squeeze the last drop from each shriveled orange.
Tightened, swarming, like a million tapeworms within us are the Demons who throw parties,
Dropping the breath of death into our lungs like an unseen river and a mute complaint.
If the artistry of rape, drugs, knives and fire has not yet stitched sweet lines into our souls,
Have pity on our empty canvases and sorry fates: we are too cowardly,
And yet among the jackals, panthers, apes, the bitches, scorpions, vultures, serpents, beasts,
Of all the vile menagerie of our vices that bark, howl, grunt and crawl upon the ground,
There’s one more ugly, wicked and unclean who without dramatic gestures or great cries
Would easily turn our planet into trash and swallow up the world with just a yawn:
See Boredom’s eye hold back a wanton tear welled up from gallows dreams and hookah smoke.
You’ve met him, reader, a consummated monster: You! Hypocrite lecteur! My twin! My brother!
You are my comfort and you are my scorn,
The reader who reads me like no one else,
The brother who helps me to see myself;
You are the petal and you are the thorn.
You’re written in to what I would compose,
The shameful pride of what I would confess
With dashes of color in the wilderness;
You are the thistle and you are the rose,
You’ve been aware of me since I was born.
You will be here when I’m laid to rest
And no longer able to be myself.
You'll be the reason to hope or to mourn.
You are all that my reflection shows.
You are the mirror and you are the pose.
With a preface translation from Baudelaire's Flowers of Evil
To the Reader:
Stupidity, error, sin and stinginess busy our minds and grind our bodies down,
And we, like beggars nourishing their lice, keep our remorse in comfort and well-fed.
Our sins are stubborn, our confessions weak; we take admissions, we demand a price;
Then, with a smile, we’re on our muddy way believing that cheap tears will make us clean.
We rest our heads upon an evil pillow with Trismegiste Satan at the cradle,
And in the vapor of his chemistry we lose the heavy metal of our will,
And with the Devil as our babysitter charming us with his repulsive toys,
Each day we’re lured another step away from fear, into the dark and stench of hell.
And like the poor bum who would kiss and nibble the battered nipple of an ancient whore
We steal the secret pleasures of our passing and squeeze the last drop from each shriveled orange.
Tightened, swarming, like a million tapeworms within us are the Demons who throw parties,
Dropping the breath of death into our lungs like an unseen river and a mute complaint.
If the artistry of rape, drugs, knives and fire has not yet stitched sweet lines into our souls,
Have pity on our empty canvases and sorry fates: we are too cowardly,
And yet among the jackals, panthers, apes, the bitches, scorpions, vultures, serpents, beasts,
Of all the vile menagerie of our vices that bark, howl, grunt and crawl upon the ground,
There’s one more ugly, wicked and unclean who without dramatic gestures or great cries
Would easily turn our planet into trash and swallow up the world with just a yawn:
See Boredom’s eye hold back a wanton tear welled up from gallows dreams and hookah smoke.
You’ve met him, reader, a consummated monster: You! Hypocrite lecteur! My twin! My brother!
You are my comfort and you are my scorn,
The reader who reads me like no one else,
The brother who helps me to see myself;
You are the petal and you are the thorn.
You’re written in to what I would compose,
The shameful pride of what I would confess
With dashes of color in the wilderness;
You are the thistle and you are the rose,
You’ve been aware of me since I was born.
You will be here when I’m laid to rest
And no longer able to be myself.
You'll be the reason to hope or to mourn.
You are all that my reflection shows.
You are the mirror and you are the pose.
Comments
Post a Comment