Epigraph

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 in the morning striding behind you



Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;



I will show you fear in a handful of dust.



-- T.S. Eliot



"The Waste Land" If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk



Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents



Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents



In the dock's hearth swarth leaves, bruised as to balk



All hop of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk



Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.



-- Robert Browning



"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came" "What river is it?" enquired Millicent idly.



"It's only a stream. Well, perhaps a little more than that. It's called the Waste."



"Is it really?"



"Yes," said Winifred, "it is."



-- Robert Aickman



"Hand in Glove"