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Editing The Waste Land: What Ezra Pound Cut
Ezra Pound leaned back in his wicker chair, tapping a blunt carpenter's pencil against the typed margins of page four. In the freezing studio on the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, the woodstove offered little warmth against the Parisian January mist. Across the table lay a disorderly pile of typed sheets, bearing the handwritten title *He Do the Police in Different Voices*. T.S. Eliot had delivered them upon returning from a psychiatric sanatorium in Lausanne: exhausted, trembling, and uncertain whether the sprawling verses constituted a masterpiece or the incoherent wreckage of a nervous breakdown. What Pound held between his ink-stained fingers was not yet a modernist monument, but a diffuse, uneven confession.
Rarely had one poet surrendered such absolute editorial authority to another. Where an ordinary friend might have offered gentle encouragement, Pound wielded his pencil with surgical ferocity.