A review of the love song of j alfred prufrock by t s eliot

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?

A review of the love song of j alfred prufrock by t s eliot

The initial reception to The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, by T. Eliot, can be summed up in a contemporary review published in The Times Literary Supplement, on the 21st of June The anonymous reviewer wrote: Eliot is surely of the very smallest importance to anyone, even to himself.

They certainly have no relation to poetry. The Love Song of J. It is considered one of the most visceral, emotional poems, and remains relevant today, particularly with millennials who are more than a little bit used to these feelings.

It is a variation on the dramatic monologue, a type of writing which was very popular from around to Alfred Prufrock Analysis 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: In this case, the personality of Alfred J.

Note the emptiness of the world: The world is transitory, half-broken, unpopulated, and about to collapse. The setting that Eliot paints, in his economic language, gives us a half-second glance at a world that seems largely unpopulated.

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Scholars, however, have been undecided on the true nature of what the first line means. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.

Finally there is a presence in the poem besides the voice of J.

A review of the love song of j alfred prufrock by t s eliot

Prufrock — the women talking of Michelangelo. It sets the scene at a party, and simultaneously sets Prufrock on his own: Prufrock is removed from the world of people, seeming almost a spirit, so acute is his distance from the rest of society.

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.

Critics are divided as to the symbolism of the yellow smog. The metaphor has in a sense been hollowed out to be replaced by a series of metonyms, and thus it stands as a rhetorical introduction to what follows.

It is never explicitly stated to be a cat, but hinted at. Much like the cat, Prufrock is on the outside looking in at a world that has not been prepared for him. Furthermore, fragmentation is a Modernist technique, which had not since been seen before in literature, and was probably not very well received by the high circle of literary elite.

Modernist poets and writers believed that their artistry should mirror the chaotic world that they lived in; seldom is meaning, in the real world, parcelled up and handed over in whole parts. This is why the poem is so significantly argued over: One can take almost any approach, any assignation of meaning, to J.

Prufrock and his world. 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.

Note again the very same process of fragmentation providing a broken-in society, a patchwork view of humanity that only serves to populate the poem with more emptiness. The sense of time, time, time, presses upon the reader, and the repetition of the world in fact makes the reader more conscious of the passing of the minutes, rather than less.

It can be therefore read as the hasty rush of daily life, that no matter how much time there is, no matter how one thinks about it, there is always going to be enough. And in the next stanza, time slows down again: While it also serves to remind the reader of the setting, this phrase stops the poem in mire.

Despite the fact that time is rushing in the last stanza, here time has slowed down; nothing has changed, nothing is quick. It could certainly be seen as another idea to the you-I schism. This line also serves to enforce the idea of keeping conversation light, airy, and without feeling.The Love Song of J.

Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot Prev Article Next Article The initial reception to The Love Song of J.

Alfred Prufrock, by T.S. Eliot, can be summed up in a contemporary review published in The Times Literary Supplement, on the 21st of June 1 The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock T.S.

A review of the love song of j alfred prufrock by t s eliot

Eliot (Published originally in his book Prufrock and Other Observations, ) S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo. Jun 06,  · The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, like much of T. S. Eliot's work, questions societal norms and points out the flawed living of empty social rituals and linguistic cliches (Damrosch ).Reviews: 5.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock and Other Poems has 16, ratings and reviews. James said: Review 3 of 5 stars to the poetry of T.S. Elio /5. Oct 03,  · Essays and criticism on T. S. Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock - Critical Essays.

“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” Summary. This poem, the earliest of Eliot’s major works, was completed in or but not published until It is an examination of the tortured psyche of the prototypical modern man—overeducated, eloquent, neurotic, and emotionally stilted.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot | Poetry Magazine