T. S. Eliot, “The Waste Land” WHERE IS JACK? He’s reading his newspaper. Please do not disturb him. He left something back there in 1963. Stepped out of it like stepping from a stream, and the current that had borne him along went on without him, water disappearing round a bend. When you are in it, the current feels inevitable. When you step out of it and have to walk, nothing is inevitable. You notice time, bowed closer and closer to the earth by the weight of what you carry on your shoulders. The newspaper is a soothing companion, filled as it is with pieces of time presented to the reader pebble by pebble, but never as a bird’s-eye view. Turn the page and the pebbles collapse into dust, to be replaced tomorrow: Scientists Track Chernobyl Cloud. Afghan Freedom Fighters Repel Soviet Invaders. Prehistoric Fish Discovered. Crinkle of the turning page. A woman’s voice reaches him, as though through parting mists. “I said, Jack, do you want some hot?” “What’s that—? Oh, merci.”
