THE LOVE SONG OF J ALFRED PRUFROCK
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all---
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all---
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all---
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"---
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor---
And this, and so much more?---
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous---
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old . . .I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
---T.S. Eliot
T.S. Eliot's The Love Song Of J Alfred Prufrock
Deja vu. The sensation of having experienced something before as it currently unfolds in the present. It's jarring when this happens, but there's also a strange comfort in deja vu. The situation triggers something in your memory which assures you that you're in familiar territory. Other clues indicate that the moment is fresh, free from any remnants of the past. It's a paradox, and apparently it's quite common: studies have shown that 70% of people report having an experience of deja vu. On my first reading of “The Love Song Of J Alfred Prufrock” that eerie sense of deja vu swelled within me and, like Prufrock, “I was afraid.” With each subsequent reading of the poem a different line or image rattles and clangs within my subconscious. I'm convinced that parts of this poem were within my brain before I read it. Why, exactly, do I believe this to be true? Because Eliot's voice cuts through all the useless junk in the world to speak directly to me; because the images are haunting and dreamlike; because the characters are nearly ghosts; because so many of the poem's lines are not decoration or dressing, but instead gritty, gutty refrains; because I read the poem and hear it in my own voice. Who knows, it could be any, all, or none of those reasons.
“Let us go then, you and I, / When the evening is spread out against the sky / Like a patient etherised upon a table.” And so begins Prufrock's Love Song---rhythmic, lyrical, a call to action on a night compared to a drugged patient. Not exactly what you'd expect from a “love song.” Even so, Eliot delivers early stanzas that guide readers through “one-night cheap hotels / and sawdust restaurants.” He does this, or his narrative character of J Alfred does this, to lead us “to an overwhelming question...” What might that question be---Eliot teases readers with this declaration of importance, replying, “Oh do not ask, What is it? / Let us go and make our visit.” Where this visit takes readers is through the room where “women come and go / Talking of Michelangelo,” the place where Prufrock will ask stirring questions, the kind we all think but very few of us have the courage to answer.
After inundating readers with yellow, a color associated with cowardice, Eliot repeats “there will be a time,” a time for the yellow smoke and fog, and “a time to murder and create.” These lines clearly evoke the verses from Ecclesiastes where Solomon describes the seasons of life (the same verses that The Byrds, by way of Pete Seeger, would make into a hit record in the 1960's). Within this familiar territory, Eliot introduces one of the ideas that will be repeated throughout the poem: indecisions, visions, and revisions. Each unanswered question that Prufrock poses swells with indecision, but he's quick to present visions and subsequent revisions, even if they're contradictory. One of my favorite of his questions is “Do I dare / Disturb the universe?” Assertive and overarching, this question ironically follows lines in which Prufrock laments his aging, replete with an obligatory “bald spot in the middle of (his) hair.” But he will quickly see the value of his age, the wisdom of having known “the evenings, mornings, and afternoons,” that allows him to not sound foolish in positing “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.” And just as quickly he'll swing back to fearing death, particularly a premature death before accomplishing the things he's capable of accomplishing.
After all the years and experiences; after all the people he's known, loved, and lost; after all he's touched in this world, Prufrock has decided this is his chance. “Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, / Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?” Just what is at stake in this moment? His place. His purpose. His mortality. I think it's fair to say that all of these are solid answers and if you gave me enough time I could come up with plenty more, but let's focus upon these three for right now. Prufrock is concerned about his place in the world, confused about his purpose, and downright terrified about his mortality. He confirms these things in one of the poem's most quoted passages, “I am no prophet—and here's no great matter; / I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, / And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, / And in short, I was afraid.” It's impossible to read those lines and not share Prufrock's fear.
In a moment of rare clarity, lacking his trademark indecision, Prufrock sets aside his questioning to declare “It is impossible to say just what I mean!” The exclamation point is crucial to this sentence. It takes this line from a whisper to a shout. Imagine Prufrock (possibly a proxy for Eliot...) slamming his fist against his desk or against a wall, overcome with frustration. So much of his life wasted, or so he believes; so much of the poem mere talk, or so he believes. But this direct speak from Prufrock is short-lived. Eliot returns Prufrock to his verbose and neurotic ways, while also taking some fun liberties with the character. After comparing himself to Lazarus, Prufrock moves on to the fertile ground of Elsinore, comparing himself not to Hamlet, but Polonius:
no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
With that description, Eliot proves he not only knows his Shakespeare well, but he also knows his own character of J Alfred Prufrock better than Prufrock knows himself.
I contemplated moving onto the mermaids, peaches, rolled trousers, and other features that end the poem, but I decided against it. Wrapping up by returning to deja vu seemed more appropriate. At certain times in my life the questions Prufrock asks of himself pop up and the poem's refrains dribble from my tongue like drips from a leaky faucet. I could take days, weeks even, trying to figure out why this poem has me enchanted. While some folks might prefer Eliot's image driven masterwork “The Waste Land,” I'll always remain partial to “The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock.” It has me in it's firm grip each time I read it; it had me in it's grip even before I read it for the first time. This is the nature of deja vu. I wonder how J Alfred Prufrock would react to a little taste of deja vu? Would he calmly say “For I have known them all already.” For some reason I think he'd go a little further than that.
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