I was addicted to its unique form at first, and I was deeply attracted from the first sentence. As a result, I fell asleep on the premise that the e-book was annotated.
after waking up, I skimmed the English version and came to the end, only to find that this book is a poetic genre.
It kills people not to judge the topic
Even though it has profound, vivid and attractive features, I still can't connect it in a book that has no spiritual program at all for me.
I can't deceive myself by saying that I understand it and like it.
until later
at the end of the book, I saw a huge space to introduce the cultural background at that time, and many obscure and abstract figurative descriptions in each poem.
He praised and judged the combination of ancient and modern symbols, reality and myth, and the combination of reality and fiction made the poem highly abstract.
One of the most irresponsible and deeply rooted passages in my heart is this.
I'd rather flinch, but there's no chance.
So (*￣m￣)
Before I admire Eliot's "April is the cruelest month", I don't have to open a book.
although I read an e-book, the typesetting is too messy. It doesn't matter, art is not about form.
But understanding the background of a book is like approaching a person. The ideological premise of approaching the author is empathy.
The uniqueness of not interacting with reality makes the symbolic Waste Land stand out from the times and become the essence. It has become a milestone in modern British and American poetry.
First, the funeral of the deceased
April is the cruelest month, with lilacs
growing on the wasteland, which combines memories and desires
, and makes the spring rain
rush those slow roots.
Winter makes us warm, and the earth
is covered with forgotten snow, which is also called
dry bulbs to provide a little life.
Summer came unexpectedly, and when it rained,
it came to Stanbukisi; We took shelter under the colonnade,
when the sun came out, we went into Hofgarden again,
had coffee and chatted for an hour.
I'm not Russian, I'm from Lithuania, and I'm a German.
And when we were young, we lived in Dagong's house.
My cousin's house, and he took me out sledding.
I was scared. He said, Mary,
Mary, hold on tight. We'll rush down.
on the mountain, where you feel free.
I read books most of the night, and I go to the south in winter.
What roots are grasping and growing out of this pile of stones? Son of man,
you can't tell or guess, because all you know is
a bunch of broken idols, whipped by the sun
dead trees have no shade. The sound of crickets is not reassuring either.
There is no sound of running water between the burnt stones. Only
there is a shadow under this red stone.
(Please walk into the shadow under this red stone)
I want to show you one thing. It's not like
the shadow you get up early, walking behind you;
unlike in the evening, I stood up to meet you;
I want to show you that fear is in a handful of dust.
The wind is blowing briskly,
Blowing me home,
Irish children,
Where are you staying?
"You gave me hyacinthus orientalis first a year ago;
they called me the girl of hyacinthus orientalis ",
-but when we came back, it was late and came from the garden in hyacinthus orientalis,
your arms were full, your hair was wet, I couldn't speak
, my eyes were blind, I was neither
alive nor dead, and I didn't know anything, <
desolation and emptiness are the sea.
Madan Haloxylon Cyrus, a famous physiognomist,
has a bad cold, but she is still
the most intelligent woman in Europa,
with a vicious deck of cards. Here, she said,
is one of yours, the drowned Phoenician sailor,
(These pearls are his eyes. )
This is Belo Dona, the hostess of the rock.
A resourceful woman.
This man is carrying three sticks. This is the "wheel".
This is the one-eyed businessman. There is nothing on this card. It is something he carries on his back.
I am not allowed to see it. I didn't find
"the hanged man". Fear of death in the water.
I saw crowds of people walking in circles.
thank you. When you see dear Mrs. Aguirre,
tell her that I will bring her the map of the heavenly palace myself.
People should be careful these days.
There is no physical city.
Under the yellow fog at dawn in winter,
A group of people filed across London Bridge, and the number was so large.
I didn't expect death to destroy many people.
Sigh, short and rare, spit it out.
Everyone's eyes are fixed on their feet.
Up the hill, down King William Street,
until St. Mary's Wuornos Church, where the chime
struck the last ninth time, with a gloomy sound.
I saw an acquaintance there, stopped him and shouted, "Steezhen!"
You were with me on the ship in Mile!
The corpse you planted in your garden last year,
Has it sprouted? Will it bloom this year?
or did the sudden frost smash its flower bed?
Tell this bear star to go away. It is a friend of people,
otherwise it will dig it up with its claws!
you! False readers! -my kind-my brother!