一首诗让人落泪的年代：一代人的绝望与幻灭被深深蕴藏在这首诗中

一首诗让人落泪的年代：一代人的绝望与幻灭被深深蕴藏在这首诗中更不用说身陷盐沼地，手握弯刀也不曾在暖融融的雨中挣扎瞧，我是干旱月份里的一位老人一边听男童读书，一边等待雨的降落我未到过温泉关

“一战后的世界如同一巨大巨大的荒原”。人的肉体依然失去其原有的生命力，而人的灵魂则处于极度极度空虚麻木的状态。面对精神与肉体的双重危机，艾略特给出了自己独特的救世方案：先“死”后“生”......

枯叟

你现在既不年轻也不老迈

但好像在一次晚餐后的睡眠中

你同时梦到了它们？

瞧，我是干旱月份里的一位老人

一边听男童读书，一边等待雨的降落

我未到过温泉关

也不曾在暖融融的雨中挣扎

更不用说身陷盐沼地，手握弯刀

被蚊蝇叮咬，苦苦作战

我的房屋腐朽不堪

房东，一个犹太人在窗台蹲坐下来

他在安特卫普的某个酒吧里出生

在布鲁塞尔起了水泡，又在伦敦长斑、脱落

夜间山羊在高原上咳嗽

岩石，苔藓，景天，烙铁，粪便

妇人在厨房里忙碌，沏茶

晚上打会儿喷嚏，捅一捅堵塞的排水沟

我，一个老头儿

风口中一颗呆滞的脑袋

奇迹的预兆总会显现。“我们将看到天兆！”

字里隐含的字，不能说出来

被黑暗重重包裹着。新年伊始

基督老虎来了

在堕落的五月，山茱萸和栗子，开花的紫荆树

它们会在窃窃私语里

在充满爱抚的双手间

给人吃掉，给人剥开，给人喝下

那是希尔维罗先生

在里摩日，隔壁房间里

那个彻夜踱步的人

博川先生，躬身在提香的画作间

德汤琪斯特夫人，在黑暗的房间里

移动蜡烛；冯·库尔普小姐

在大厅里转过身，一只手搭在门上

空梭子徒劳地编织着风。我没有灵魂

一个老头儿在冷风阵阵的房间里

后面又是多风的小丘

懂得了这些，能宽恕些什么？现在想想

历史存在很多机巧，造作和争端

用不可告人的野心欺骗我们

又拿虚荣和浮华来加以引诱。现在想想

在我们注意力涣散时她才给予

而她所给的，又带有如此巧妙的混乱

这所给之物让人心充满饥渴。给得太迟

就不再被信任，或仍然被信任

只是在记忆中，重温激情。给得太快

柔弱的双手无力承接，被认为是多此一举

直到拒绝也传达出某种恐惧。想想

恐惧和勇气都不能将我们拯救。反常的恶习

是为我们的英雄气概所创立。美德

因我们无耻的罪行，而强加于我们自身

眼泪从强忍愤怒的树上摇落

老虎会在新的一年里活跃起来。吞食我们

最后想想

我们还没有得出公论，当我

在出租房屋里僵坐。最后想想

我并不是漫无目的地表演

也不是受魔鬼驱使的任何挑动

我真诚无比地对你说

我靠近你心脏的那部分正远你而去

在恐惧中失去美丽，在审判中忘却恐惧

我已激情尽失：为什么我要持有它

如果那被持有的终将变得不纯？

同时丧失的还有色声香味触：

我如何动用它们，当你正靠得越来越近？

这些连同上千次微不足道的深思熟虑

扩大了他们那些冰冷妄语的好处

刺激那层薄膜，当感觉冷却下来时

用辛辣的酱汁，繁多的花样

映在镜子的荒原里。蜘蛛会做些什么呢

暂缓行动，象鼻虫

会耽搁吗？德·拜尔哈切，佛莱斯卡，卡莫尔妇人

统统被旋转出颤抖的大熊星座轨道之外

还原成一个个原子。在多风的贝尔岛海峡

海鸥迎风翱翔，或飞向和恩角

海湾声称，白色羽毛飘落在雪上

一个老人顺着信风

驶向一处寂静的角落。

房子的租户，

旱季里干枯脑袋的随想。

英文原版

Gerontion

Thou hast nor youth nor age

But as it were an after dinner sleep

Dreaming of both?

Here I am an old man in a dry month

Being read to by a boy waiting for rain.

I was neither at the hot gates

Nor fought in the warm rain

Nor knee deep in the salt marsh heaving a cutlass

Bitten by flies fought.

My house is a decayed house

And the jew squats on the window sill the owner

Spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp

Blistered in Brussels patched and peeled in London.

The goat coughs at night in the field overhead;

Rocks moss stonecrop iron merds.

The woman keeps the kitchen makes tea

Sneezes at evening poking the peevish gutter.

I an old man

A dull head among windy spaces.

Signs are taken for wonders.”We would see a sign!”

The word within a word unable to speak a word

Swaddled with darkness.In the juvescence of the year

Came Christ the tiger

In depraved May dogwood and chestnut flowering judas

To be eaten to be divided to be drunk

Among whispers;by Mr.Silvero

With caressing hands at Limoges

Who walked all night in the next room;

By Hakagawa bowing among the Titians;

By Madame de Tornquist in the dark room

Shifting the candles;Fraulein von Kulp

Who turned in the hall one hand on the door.Vacant shuttles

Weave the wind.I have no ghosts

An old man in a draughty house

Under a windy knob.

After such knowledge what forgiveness?Think now

History has many cunning passages contrived corridors

And issues deceives with whispering ambitions

Guides us by vanities.Think now

She gives when our attention is distracted

And what she gives gives with such supple confusions

That the giving famishes the craving.Gives too late

What’s not believed in or if still believed

In memory only reconsidered passion.Gives too soon

Into weak hands what’s thought can be dispensed with

Till the refusal propagates a fear.Think

Neither fear nor courage saves us.Unnatural vices

Are fathered by our heroism.Virtues

Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes

These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.

The tiger springs in the new year.Us he devours.Think at last

We have not reached conclusion when I

Stiffen in a rented house.Think at last

I have not made this show purposelessly

And it is not by any concitation

Of the backward devils.

I would meet you upon this honestly.

I that was near your heart was removed therefrom

To lose beauty in terror terror in inquisition.

I have lost my passion:why should I need to keep it

Since waht is kept must be adulterated?

I have lost my sight smell hearing taste and touch:

How should I use them for your closer contact?

These with a thousand small deliberations

Protract the profit of their chilled delirium

Excite the membrane when the sense has cooled

With pungent sauces multiply variety

In a wilderness of mirrors.What will the spider do

Suspend its operations will the weevil

Delay?De Bailhache Freaca Mrs.Cammel whirled

Beyond the circuit of the shuddering Bear

In fractured atoms.Gull against the wind in the windy straits

Of Belle Isle or running on the Horn

White feathers in the snow the Gulf claims

And an old man driven by the Trades

To a sleepy corner.

Tenants of the house

Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season.

(1920)