T.S. Eliot: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (Some thoughts…and a reading)

It really says something about how difficult T.S. Eliot’s poetry can be when the one, if not only, poem almost every high school English Literature curriculum has of Eliot’s is The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. That poem, among all the poetry of Eliot, is evidently considered to be the easiest—and it isn’t that easy to understand. I remember first reading it as a senior in high school and thinking, “I have no idea what this guy is saying, but there’s something about it that is really interesting!” Since then, I’ve read it quite a bit, and have even taught it a number of times. I understand it a lot better than I did as a 17-year-old kid, and I love it even more. And so, in this post, I’m going to say a few things about Prufrock—and I even have a short video of me reading it at the end.

The poem as a whole is pretty much an interior dialogue of a certain J. Alfred Prufrock as he goes about his life, in particular in regard to his attending a certain social gathering. In that sense, the interior dialogue is between Prufrock’s false self, the mask he shows to the world, and his real self, the inner man looking at how his false self interacts with the world and debating whether or not to show his real self to the world. Thus, the poem shows the tension and insecurity of a man who is torn between questioning his existence and the meaning of life and going along with the status quo. In many way, it reflects the tension that is within all of us.

The poem begins with a quote from Dante’s Inferno, spoken by the spirit of Guido da Montefeltro:
            If I thought that my reply would be to one who would ever
            return to the world, this flame would stay without further movement.
            But since none has ever returned alive from this depth, if what
            I hear is true, I answer you without fear of infamy.

In the Inferno, the only reason the spirit speaks to Dante is because he is certain that no one in the real world would ever hear his thoughts. In the same vein, the thoughts of Prufrock are thus presented as those interior thoughts he (and probably to a certain extent, everybody) harbors, but never dare share with others.

The Party (Part 1)
The first four stanzas in the poem provide the setting of Prufrock going to a party, all the while agonizing whether he should have the courage to be his true self, or whether he should continue to wear the mask of his false self. The description in the first stanza of the city as he goes at evening to the party is rife with imagery of darkness, death, and depression. The very evening is equated to “a patient etherized upon a table”—numb, not conscious, awaiting to be cut open on the operating table. The streets are half-deserted and are the streets that pass through the red-light district, filled with restless nights, one-night cheap hotels, and sawdust restaurants with oyster shells. As Prufrock passes through the seedy part of town, he is led to an overwhelming question, probably something like, “What is the meaning of this life?” But instead of pondering the question, he stuffs it back down and goes off to “make our visit” to the party, where “In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo”—shallow party conversation, seemingly about high culture, but ultimately meaningless.

The second stanza describes the yellow fog and yellow smoke that descends upon the city, fogging up windows and filling the October night to where nothing can really be seen. In addition, there is the image of chimney soot, further adding to the dirty image of the city in the late fall. Throughout the stanza, the fog is described as a cat, and eventually it “curled once about the house, and fell asleep.” It is worth noting that in the poem, windows are images of clarity, while in this stanza, the fog that covers the windows and curls around the house (presumably where the party is being held) illustrates the shallowness and self-imposed comatose the shallow life of partygoers live. The purpose of the party is to forget reality and to indulge in the shallow passions of our false self.

In the third and fourth stanzas, before Prufrock actually gets to the party and goes in the house, he questions the meaning of it. Yes (echoing Ecclesiastes 3), he realizes there is a time for everything—a time for light-hearted social gatherings, a time for self-reflection, and everything in between. At this particular time, though, as he is going to the party, he is filled with doubt and indecisiveness: “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 toast and tea.”

Yet the party is waiting, the women are there, talking of Michelangelo, and so he proceeds up the stairs, all the while, still debating whether or not he should go in and play the shallow social game, or turn and go home, or have the courage to go to the party and “dare disturb the universe” by being his real self and expressing his true thoughts. Is his real self really all that impressive, though? Won’t people just comment on how his hair is thinning and how he is looking older and frailer? It is this self-doubt and low-self esteem that haunts Prufrock and steals away any courage that he might have.

The next four stanzas describe his experience at the party. He’s been to so many of them, that he knows the routine, he knows the people—it’s always the same. He reflects on the shallowness of it when he says, “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.” And he knows “the voices dying with a dying fall/Beneath the music from a farther room.” Everyone there falls short of their true selves. Ultimately, everyone is dying and will soon go to that “farther room” after death. He also knows all the eyes at the party, the way people look at you and judge you and seek to label and categorize you like an insect. Given that is the way things always are, Prufrock asks himself, “Then how should I begin to spit out the butt-ends of my days and ways?” What’s the point of trying to be your true self in a party, indeed in a world, that never looks beyond the surface?

Prufrock then reflects on all the women at the party, particularly their arms and their perfume, and realizes how seductive and appealing they often are. Indeed, it is the lure of women that causes Prufrock (and indeed so many men) to just go along and “play the game.” He briefly contemplates stirring up enough courage to express his inner thoughts at the party:

            “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…”

When considered in light of his journey to the party, it seems he is contemplating the red-light district he has passed through, and how people search for acceptance and meaning through sexual encounters. Yet, the reality is that such a life is “at dusk” and is filled with smoke that makes it hard to see clearly. Such a life is characterized by loneliness and the attempt to see through the windows, but the windows are useless in such smoke and fog. Prufrock knows this. He wants to say something about how meaningless such a life is, but he chooses not to, and because he doesn’t, he realizes something else about himself: “I should have been a pair of ragged claws/Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.” He sees his inner self as ultimately undesirable and insignificant, and therefore chooses to just get lost in a romantic evening with intoxicating women.

The Morning After (Part 2)
The next three stanzas describe the next morning. Apparently, he has spent the night with a woman who is sleeping there with him. Although he first refers to the sleep as “peaceful,” Prufrock quickly questions if it is truly peaceful, or whether or not his life is just “tired” or really if it just “malingers” to avoid any kind of real life. Once again, as he reflects on the night before, he questions whether or not he should have had the courage to speak his mind and to thus speak in a prophetic-like manner. Should he have had “the strength to force the moment to its crisis,” if they would only have noticed his balding head and treated him like Herod who brought the head of John the Baptist in on a platter at his party? Prufrock’s low self-esteem dominates his thinking, and he rationalizes that he really isn’t any kind of prophet, and besides, it’s “no great matter.” He then says, “I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker/And in short, I was afraid.” The eternal Footman is Death. Prufrock knows the reality of death makes a mockery of all our superficial posturing and signals the end of our life. That scares Prufrock into silence.

He then rationalizes that it wouldn’t have been worth it anyway. Even if he had summoned the strength to express his thoughts, to act like Lazarus back from the dead, and to bring up some great philosophical question about the meaning of life, those lovely women would just set their heads on a pillow or look out the window and say, “That is not what I meant at all.” They would prefer sleep to contemplation. And the windows wouldn’t provide any clarity anyway, because that yellow fog was curled about the house anyway.

The poem ends with Prufrock’s own pathetic assessment of himself. He realizes that he isn’t like Prince Hamlet, who was faced with a challenge and who, despite hesitating to do what needed to be done, ended up summoning the courage to do it. No, Prufrock realizes he is more like Polonius, the attendant lord in Hamlet. Polonius was always about proper manners, always was full of himself, and was always a bumbling fool. Prufrock could never find the courage to be his true self. He knows just how shallow and empty modern life is, but he is too afraid to speak up about it. Even worse, he just knowingly keeps up with it.

Prufrock contemplates the fact that he’s getting older, but that’s too depressing, so he tries to think of his choice of clothes, whether or not he should part his hair differently (after all, that thinning hair!), or “dare each a peach” (that becomes his big existential challenge). He decides to walk along the beach and watch the waves. At that point, he says: “I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each/I do not think they will sing to me.” In Greek mythology, mythological creatures, like the Sirens, would often sing to heroes like Odysseus, precisely because he was a hero—it was a challenge to try to tempt him and stop him. But, being the hero, Odysseus prevails. Prufrock, realizes he isn’t heroic in any way—therefore, he realizes those mermaids wouldn’t even bother wasting their time singing to him.

That is where we leave Prufrock—on the beach, in bondage to his own vanity, looking out on the sea, seeing the mermaids as “the wind blows the water white and black”—clearly seeing the truth of reality, but too afraid to do anything about it:

            “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.”

No matter how much he contemplates the meaning of life, the “voice” of empty relationships “wakes him up” to the modern shallow society in which those racked with self-consciousness and fear continually drown.