Digtet The Waste Land har 100års fødselsdag

25.12.2022 | digte

Jeg læste lige i Information at digtet The Waste Land har 100 års fødselsdag i dag: The Wasteland 100 år.

Det er super interessant. TWL (The Waste Land) var skrevet som et opgør med romantiske digte(re) - digtet er upersonligt i modsætning til digte der siger noget om forfatteren bag. Det er en måde at skrive på jeg tidligere har tidligere har foreslået som inspiration til at skrive digte. Digtet er fragmentarisk, dele af det er på tysk, det er fyldt med (indre) dialog for ikke at tale om referencer.

Høeck er blevet interviewet i artiklen, ham er jeg ret vild med. I det hele taget har TWL været indirekte inspiration for en række digtere fra 60erne og 70erne.

Lad os få første (og muligvis mest kendte) kapitel på bordet:

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!”

Jeg spiller (men ikke så meget som jeg spillede) magic-kort, et ret centralt kort er et der hedder Wasteland (på billedet herunder). Der er en foilversion (glimmerversion/special edition) af kortet hvorpå der står I will show you fear in a handful of dust. Nemlig! Taget fra digtet af næsten samme navn.

Der er flere sætninger der popper frem fra digtet når jeg vader rundt i forskellige situationer. Feks. popper følgende tit frem når jeg læser noget med shadow eller red rock:

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.

Sidste linje er den fra magic-kortet. Mildest talt dramatisk.

Åbningen dukker op den første april. Den er også alle steder når man skal referere digtet uden at nævne titlen. Det er lige før jeg tror første linje er mere kendt end titlen:

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain.

De næste tre linjer minder mig om ordet winter (eller omvendt):

Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers.

Jeg kan heller ikke stå for minderne:

And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.

For slet ikke at tale om springende mellem hvilket personer vi følger, den fragmentariske stil:

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,

I artiklen nævner de jo referencerne digtet er sprængfyldt af. Men så langt er jeg aldrig kommet med det pga. det både raffinerede og slagkfratige sprog. Og så er jeg vild med at det er sådan et digt der aldrig rigtigt giver mening. For ikke at tale om endeligt at læse et digt for digtets eget skyld - hvor man ikke behøver at forholde sig til forfatteren.

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