T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock ( A moment for poetry/ Trenutak za poeziju)

February 14, 2017

It seems like an appropriate moment to talk about this poem. Even if it really isn't a typical romantic poem at all. Don't let the title deceive you, this is no classical love song. On the contrary, our protagonist Prufrock is haunted by his own weakness; overpowered by his feelings of regret and weariness. It is not even certain does Prufrock has a love interest at all. It seems that he does, and there are several references to women in this poem. Perhaps he is trying to sum up courage to express his feelings to his loved one? Or not- perhaps he is actually trying to sum up courage to confront society. Whatever is the case, a fear of rejection is present in this poem and that is something most of us can relate to.

Danas se čini kao prikladan trenutak za pričati o ovoj pjesmi. Čak i ako to zapravo nije tipična romantična pjesma. Nemojte da vas naslov zavara, ovo nije klasična ljubavna pjesma. Sasvim obrnuto, naš protagonist Prufrock je progonjen vlastitom nemoći i svladan osjećajima žaljenja i umora. Nije uopće sigurno je li Prufrock zaljubljen u nekoga. Možda pokušava sakupiti hrabrost da izrazi svoje osjećaje voljenoj? Ili možda ne- možda pokušava skupiti pažnju da se suprostavi društvu. Što god bio slučaj, strah od odbijanja je pristutan u ovoj pjesmi i to je nešto sa čime većina nas može suosjećati.

You can listen and read this poem online for free on Poetry Foundation. The audio version on this site is really lovely, expect the first stanza in Italian ( the Italian pronunciation was absolutely butchered). You can find the full text of this poem at the end of his post as well.

Published it in 1915, The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock is one of the first modernist poems. It also happens to be the first poem published by T.S. Eliot. He actually wrote it a few years prior to it being published. This poem abandons the romantic verse of 19th century and embraces stream of consciousness technique that will become a trade mark of modernist writing.

The draft version of this poem contained a passage from Dante's Purgatorio, but he decided to use a paragraph from Inferno instead. He did use that line from Purgatorio for closing lines of his The Waste Land (published in 1922 and considered a central work of modernism). But enough with the history lesson.

Objavljena 1915., Ljubavna pjesma J. Aflreda Prufrocka je jedna od prvih modernističkih pjesama. Također je i prva objavljena pjesma T.S. Eliota. Zapravo ju je napisao par godina prije nego što je objavljena. Ova pjesma napušta romantični stih devetnaestoga stoljeća i prihvaća tehniku tijeka svijesti koja će postati zaštitni znak modernističkoga pisanja.

Prva verzija ove pjesme sadržavala je ulomak iz Dantenova Čistišta, ali on je odlučio iskoristiti paragraf it Pakla umjesto njega. No, taj pasus je iskoristio za završne stihove svoje pjesme Pusta Zemlja (objavljene 1922, smatra se jednim od ključnih djela modernizma). No, dosta lekcije iz povijesti.

Why this poem still continues to fascinate me has little to do with my in interest in literary criticism and/or history. The reason is very simple. I'm moved by Prufrock's intense monologue (or as some would say self- dialogue). When I think about literature of 20th century, I can't help but notice many similarities with our century. They say that depression will prove to be the main and most dangerous sickness of our century. Weren't people depressed in the past? I'm sure they were.

I'm not the one to idolize the past. I'm well aware of the advantages of this century- for example, the possibility of self- education via Internet. But the intense alienation of the modern man may be a new phenomena. How exactly we are supposed to combat it, I'm not sure. We will have to figure it out. What I'm sure of is that it can't hurt to love our dear ones, to be nice to one another, to be decent, to treat others as human beings. To admit to our own fragility, but not be scared of it. It is the tender love that lasts. Love is one of those things that are hard to define. But if you have felt it, you know it. It is a mystical experience really. Love. We need more of it. This poem might not be a typical love poetry, but it speaks about our need for love- and that's important.

Zašto me ova pjesma nastavlja fascinirati nema previše veze s mojim zanimanjem za kritiku i/ili povijest književnosti. Razlog je veoma jednostavan. Dirnuo me Prufrockov intenzivni monolog (ili kao što bi nekli rekli dijalog sa samim sobom). Kada razmišljam o književnosti dvadesetoga stoljeća, ne mogu ne primijeti brojne sličnosti s ovim stoljećem. Kažu da će se depresija pokazati kao glavna i najopasnija bolest ovoga stoljeća. Zar ljudi nisu bili depresivni u prošlosti? Sigurna sam da su bili.

Nisam sklona idealizirati prošlost. Posve sam svjesna prednosti ovoga stoljeća- na primjer, mogućnosti samoobrazovanja koje nam Internet pruža. No, intenzivna usamljenost modernoga čovjeka možda je novi fenomen. Kako bismo se trebali boriti sa njom, nisam sigurna. Morat ćemo nešto smisliti. Ono u što sam sigurna da ne može škoditi voljeti svoje bližnje, biti dobar i čovječan prema drugima i tretirati ih kao ljudska bića. Priznati svoju ranjivost, ali ne dopustiti sebi da je se bojimo. Nježna ljubav je ta koja traje. Ljubav je jedna od onih stvari koje je teško opisati. Ako ste je osjetili, poznajete ju. To je zapravo mistično iskustvo. Ljubav. Potrebno nam je više ljubavi. Ova pjesma možda nije tipična ljubavna pjesma, ali govori o našoj potrebi za ljubavlju- i stoga je važna.

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The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

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, 1915