S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche 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 towards 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's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (1915) is one of the foundational texts of Modernist poetry. Its fragmented structure, richly suggestive imagery, and profound existential anxiety capture the disillusionment of the early 20th century. Through the dramatic monologue of the self-conscious, hesitant, and deeply introspective speaker, J. Alfred Prufrock, Eliot explores themes of isolation, alienation, the passage of time, and the paralysis of indecision. This analysis will examine the poem's structure, imagery, and thematic resonance, situating it within its historical and literary contexts.
The poem is a dramatic monologue, though its title ironically calls it a "love song." Unlike traditional love poems, it presents a speaker paralyzed by fear and indecision, unable to act on his desires. The irregular rhyme scheme and enjambment mirror Prufrock's disjointed thoughts and fractured psyche, while the use of free verse gives the poem a conversational, almost confessional tone.
Eliot employs fragmented, circular logic in Prufrock's musings, a hallmark of Modernist experimentation. The recurring refrain—such as "In the room the women come and go / Talking of Michelangelo"—creates a rhythmic structure while emphasizing Prufrock's inability to connect with others or feel at ease in social settings. The constant questioning ("Do I dare?" "How should I presume?") underscores his self-doubt and fear of judgment.
Urban Landscape: The opening lines evoke a modern cityscape, where "the evening is spread out against the sky / Like a patient etherized upon a table." This striking simile combines beauty with morbidity, suggesting a world both anesthetized and dispassionate. The "half-deserted streets" and "one-night cheap hotels" reflect the alienation and moral decay of urban life, while the "tedious argument / Of insidious intent" foreshadows the speaker's intellectual paralysis.
Yellow Fog and Smoke: The yellow fog, described in animalistic terms ("rubs its back," "licked its tongue"), serves as a symbol of ambiguity and stagnation. Its slowness and lethargy mirror Prufrock's indecision. The fog’s pervasive presence also suggests the pollution and malaise of modern existence.
Time: Time is a dominant motif, with Prufrock obsessively repeating, "There will be time." This phrase, both reassuring and disconcerting, reflects his rationalization for inaction. However, the insistence on time underscores its inexorable passage, heightening the existential dread that permeates the poem.
Mermaids and Sea Imagery: In the final stanzas, Prufrock turns to the fantastical image of mermaids "riding seaward on the waves." They symbolize an idealized, unattainable beauty and transcendence, contrasting sharply with his mundane, suffocating reality. The concluding line—"Till human voices wake us, and we drown"—suggests that even fleeting dreams of escape are shattered by the inevitability of human limitation.
Paralysis and Indecision: Prufrock is paralyzed by self-consciousness and fear of judgment. His repeated questions ("Do I dare?" "How should I presume?") illustrate his inability to act, turning his thoughts inward rather than outward. His fixation on trivialities, such as his baldness and thin arms, highlights his acute insecurity.
Alienation and Isolation: The recurring refrain about women discussing Michelangelo emphasizes Prufrock's disconnection from the cultured, sophisticated world he observes but cannot join. He measures his life "with coffee spoons," a poignant metaphor for the monotony and smallness of his existence.
Mortality and the Passage of Time: Prufrock's musings reveal an acute awareness of mortality. Phrases such as "I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker" illustrate his fear of death and the futility of his aspirations.
Modernist Disillusionment: Reflecting the broader disillusionment of Eliot's generation, the poem rejects Romantic notions of heroism or grandeur. Prufrock declares, "I am no Prince Hamlet," casting himself as a minor, inconsequential figure—a mere "attendant lord."
Written during the early 20th century, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock reflects the anxieties of a post-Victorian, industrialized world. The poem's fragmented style and use of stream-of-consciousness anticipate later Modernist works, such as James Joyce's Ulysses. The urban imagery aligns with the rise of the city as both a symbol of opportunity and alienation.
Eliot's allusions to figures such as Lazarus, Hamlet, and Michelangelo place Prufrock within a literary and cultural tradition, yet these references often serve to underscore his inadequacy in comparison to these grand archetypes. This juxtaposition of the mundane and the sublime is central to the poem’s Modernist aesthetic.
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock is a masterful exploration of the complexities of modern existence. Through its innovative form, evocative imagery, and profound thematic depth, Eliot captures the disillusionment and paralysis of an individual—and, by extension, a society—grappling with a fragmented, alienating world. Prufrock’s hesitant voice, rich in self-doubt and existential anxiety, resonates as a universal lament for the lost opportunities and unspoken desires that define the human condition. The poem remains a poignant testament to the enduring challenges of self-awareness, connection, and purpose in the modern age.
Dante Alighieri’s Inferno and T.S. Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock are two landmark works in Western literature, separated by centuries yet united in their exploration of existential crises, self-awareness, and the human condition. Dante’s tercets reflect the moral gravity and theological certitude of the medieval world, while Eliot’s modernist masterpiece embodies the alienation and fractured identity characteristic of the 20th century. This analysis will compare Dante's excerpt from Canto XXVII, spoken by Guido da Montefeltro, and Eliot’s meditation on paralysis and indecision, demonstrating how both texts interrogate human frailty through their respective narrative and poetic frameworks.
In Dante’s lines, Guido da Montefeltro declares:
“S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza più scosse.”
Guido’s assertion hinges on the finality of his confession, safe in the certainty that no soul escapes Hell to reveal his shame. His words reveal the duality of self—one that engages in calculated confession but cannot escape the damnation of duplicity. The speaker's self-awareness is central: he acknowledges his sin but remains unable to transcend its consequences.
Similarly, Prufrock’s agonizing self-scrutiny emerges in his repeated question, “Do I dare?” Eliot mirrors Guido’s fixation on the consequences of action and revelation, but rather than the afterlife, Prufrock's paralysis is anchored in social and existential dread. Both speakers embody the torment of individuals trapped in cycles of self-recrimination, unable to break free.
Dante’s tightly controlled terza rima structure emphasizes inevitability and order, a stark contrast to Prufrock’s fragmented, stream-of-consciousness style. Guido’s speech, constrained within Dante’s tercets, reflects the unyielding logic of divine justice, a system that permits no evasion. The measured rhythm underscores the certainty of Guido’s eternal damnation.
Eliot, conversely, deploys free verse and juxtaposed imagery, creating a disjointed rhythm that mirrors Prufrock’s mental fragmentation. The repetition of phrases like “In the room the women come and go / Talking of Michelangelo” introduces a cyclical stasis akin to Guido’s oscillation between guilt and justification. However, where Dante’s order implies cosmic justice, Eliot’s disarray underscores the modern sense of disconnection and futility.
Dante’s imagery of flames encapsulates Guido’s torment, a vivid representation of his sin’s eternal consequence:
“Ma perciò che giammai di questo fondo
Non tornò vivo alcun…”
Here, the infernal fire symbolizes divine retribution and Guido’s inescapable self-awareness, burning without catharsis. The flame becomes both prison and confession, encapsulating the permanence of his moral failure.
In contrast, Eliot’s yellow fog operates as a modern symbol of malaise, suffusing the poem with ambiguity:
“The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes…”
Unlike the flames of Hell, the fog neither condemns nor redeems—it obscures. This vagueness encapsulates Prufrock’s indecision and the smothering effect of modernity’s moral ambiguity. Where Guido confronts eternal judgment, Prufrock languishes in a world where absolutes are conspicuously absent.
Time functions differently in each text. Dante’s Guido exists within the timeless eternity of Hell, his narrative fixed and irrevocable. He reflects on his past choices with a resignation borne of irredeemable finality. His confession is shaped by the absence of a future, reinforcing the theological framework of divine justice.
Prufrock, however, exists in a perpetual present:
“In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.”
Eliot’s temporal flux captures the anxiety of modernity, where the future is an overwhelming void rather than a realm of hope or judgment. Prufrock’s obsessive calculation of moments contrasts sharply with Guido’s retrospective lament, emphasizing the modern self’s preoccupation with uncertainty.
Dante and Eliot, though separated by historical context and worldview, converge in their exploration of human frailty. Guido da Montefeltro and J. Alfred Prufrock are figures trapped by their self-awareness, their inability to act decisively sealing their respective fates. Where Dante’s rigid structure reflects the certainties of medieval theology, Eliot’s fragmented modernist style evokes the disorientation of a world without absolutes. Together, these works illuminate the enduring complexities of the human condition, resonating across centuries as meditations on guilt, paralysis, and the search for meaning.