Mr. Prufrock

"There will be time, there will be time..."

I recently realized that I often find myself quoting short lines from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," T. S. Eliot's American/English lit gem that is the bane of so many intro lit students' existence. (Who cares about the yellow fog, women talking of Michaelangelo or if he ever eats that peach? Apparently, I do.) The line that often jumps to mind (apologies in advance for any misquotations):

"No! I am not prince Hamlet, nor was I meant to be..."

And on Monday, that part about him wriggling on a pin popped into my head in relation to a neologism: butterflied. (Butterflied refers to the act of metaphorically sticking something/someone to a fixed place within a classificatory system, for display, observation, control, objectification, simplification...you get the idea. I like this word, as it captures a concept that cannot be properly expressed in a single word or phrase.) As the concept of butterflied was explained to me, I found that the lines of the poem express the concept of butterflied most poingnantly. (But I wonder if butterflied is the best word, since it also refers to a certain style of cutting meat, and at first hearing calls up images of flight, which is completely denied by the definition. Anyone else have a better word for this concept?)

Anyway, with quotes from Prufrock clearly on the brain, last night I pulled out the old anthology (American or Brit lit will do) and read the poem from start to finish, out loud, under my breath so as not to disturb another present. It's a great poem to read aloud, with the words falling like rain. Generally, the drops fall steady and rhythmic, like a patter on the concrete, but occassionally the drops lighten and other times they build to a torrent. But they always fall like rain. So I let the drops roll off my tongue, falling with a melancholy splash onto the page, soaking me in images, emotions drenching me. I read the poem the way you would walk a long distance in a storm, with a resigned air, determined but unhurried.

I cannot quite say why the poem strikes me so. I would not model my life after Mr. Prufrock; in fact I almost wish to live in antithesis, but not quite. When I read it this time, I saw the depth he lived in his mind; the great passion he invested in a manner that no others could see. But such passion remained closed off from others, for what? Fear of others, the power to wound, the exposure, vulnerability... Better to live a drama in the head controlled, even if the outcome is all wrong, than to risk disaster in the unpredictability... How can I say just what I mean? I will read this and think, That is not what I meant at all, that is not it at all.

The poem says it so much better than I. I used to think Mr. Prufrock feared to live, but now I think he lived too deeply, too passionately, in his mind.

Read the poem. Let me know what you think, if you like. Or just enjoy the raindrops slowly soaking your skin.

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