Quoth Kenneth Kreutzer <[log in to unmask]>:
> To add to Catherine Paul's query, I wonder if anyone knows of any
> English translations of these. I don't recall having come across
The only one I've seen in English translation is "Dans le
restaurant," which A. D. Moody translated in his 1977 study of Eliot.
In the hope that this falls within the bounds of fair use, I include
his translation below.
As to the others, I had to resort to translating them myself, purely
for my own reference and without a great deal of confidence in the
accuracy of the results. Perhaps we can join forces, compare notes,
scare up some TSE subscribers truly fluent in French?
In the Restaurant (trans. A. D. Moody)
He was a scarecrow waiter with nothing better to do
Than scratch his knuckles, and perch himself at my shoulder:
'It will be rainy where I come from,
Wind, and a burst of sun, then rain-
They call it the tramps' washing day.'
(Stoop-backed, dribbling driveller
At least stop dribbling in my soup.)
'Dripping willows, buds on the briars,
You take cover there when there's a shower.
I was seven, she was littler.
She got soaked, I picked primroses for her.'
I count up to thirty-eight spots on his waistcoat.
'I tickled her, to make her laugh.
I felt such power for a moment, such rapture.'
At that age? come off it, you dirty old man . . .
'What happened was tough, sir.
A big dog came up and pawed at us,
And I was frightened-left her where she was.
It was such a pity.'
What, you have your vulture as well!
Scratch the dirt from the wrinkles in your face,
Here, take my fork to your filthy skull.
What right have you to pay for it as I do?
Here's a penny for the Public Baths.
Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight drowned,
Forgot the cries of gulls and the Cornish surge,
The cargo of tin and the profit and the loss;
A current undersea carried him down
Through all the stages of his former life.
Think now: how hard his luck
Who used to be a fine tall fellow.
(_Thomas Stearns Eliot: Poet_ [Cambridge:
Cambridge Univ. Press, 1979], 77)
Greg Foster | "Fine art is the refinement,
<[log in to unmask]> | not the antithesis, of
TSE <[log in to unmask]> | popular art." -- T. S. Eliot