The Love Song of J. Alfred Frufrock, an explication.

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The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

T. S. Eliot

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 <>

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 < from falls that soot>.
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 , there will be
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and ,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and for me.
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And < and visions hundred for>,
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 < white braceleted>
[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
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,
Woud 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>, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, < or scene start>,
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 < the upon walk>.
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.

Now the explication...

Many of the words and phrases in T.S. Eliot’s poem, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” dramatize the conflict between Prufrock’s reality and his own imagination, particularly as this conflict relates to what he seems to think is happening and what is really his own insecurity. In this poem, Eliot presents a middle-aged, single man who stresses about his shortcomings just before and while attending an invitational tea party. His feelings of awkwardness at the thought of speaking to a woman becomes consuming of this thoughts, but the truth behind his feelings are never justified. While he enacts a belief that the only outcome from this party is rejection from women, he demonstrates himself in terms to the reader as an exaggerated clown. The speaker, trying to elude his frenzied neurosis, chooses to rationalize his turmoil in more symbolic ways. For example, he describes himself as a “patient etherised upon a table” (1), characterizes his loneliness in cat-like ways “rubs its muzzle on the window pane” (4), relates his predictability “measured out my life with coffee spoons” (8), portrays himself as a butterfly pinned on a cork board “wriggling on the wall” (9), characterizes himself as John the Baptist whose head was “brought in upon a platter” (13), describes his fantasy that he should have been a crab “scuttling across the floors of silent seas” (11), and pictures his self-denial as never becoming the lead of a play “I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be” (16). Further, the poem alerts the reader to possible underlying oddities about the speaker and his darker side. For example, the love song begins with an epigraph from Dante’s “Inferno.” Perhaps a past experience that has altered his emotions is to blame for Prufrock’s feelings of insecurity. In addition, the speaker mentions several times in the poem about his head going bald. This attention to his baldness gives a sense that the speaker is feeling badly about his changing appearance. However, this is contrasted by his use of contradicting words by saying “there will be time” (5, 7). That is, time for the speaker to change or still enough attractive qualities other than his appearance that will allow someone to fall in love with him. The poem relates a real scene, but with exaggerated, sometimes negative dialogue from the speaker to himself. Further, although the division of stanza’s are present, the reader is challenged by the speaker’s rapid mind thoughts. Illusions are a dominant part of the speaker’s imagination. For example, he relates his “crisis” to the historical character John the Baptist whose head was “brought in upon a platter.” The speaker further dramatizes this illusion by remarking that his own head has “grown slightly bald” (13), implying his head on a platter looks even worse than John’s and so he again over-dramatizes himself by paralleling his life with that of a biblical martyr. The language of the poem remains consistent despite the speaker’s incessant need to contradict his feelings and thoughts. One obvious change in mood happens in between the lines in stanza eleven. Here, the speaker seems to be content with auditioning his lines, mustering his courage to speak to a woman who will be at the party, but suddenly, in the white space of that stanza, his mood radically changes and he wishes himself to a life of a crab on the bottom of the ocean because in that instant of blank space, he thinks of himself as just stupid. Although the poem does demonstrates a rhyme pattern, Eliot dilutes and creatively uses these patterns in order to reduce the sing-song sounds. For example, “you and I, sky” (2), “is it, visit” (2), “ices, crisis” (13), and “peach, beach, each” (17). The overall external structure of this poem lends more to meter and is written in stanza form. This form allows the content of the poem to move freely with the speaker as well as accenting his movements as a walking, thinking speaker. The poem ends with the speaker wavering between changing his ways (18) or continuing in his own self-pity and loneliness. The realness of his struggle is felt by the speaker’s repeated use of despairing words such as, “overwhelming” (2, 14), “indecisions” (5), “obtuse” (16), and “the Fool” (16). Finally, the speaker relates his decision to a sailor’s myth of mermaids singing and riding the waves in the chambers of the sea. In this way, he reveals his worry over rejection, but in so doing, ultimately gives in to his own negative rational and brushes aside his true desire to be in love.

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