A Classroom Discussion
We are going to close out the seminar with two great poems of the Twentieth Century, one by T.S. Eliot, and one by William Butler Yeats. Both are still famous, both very, very highly regarded. I often refer to Yeats as one of the greatest poets ever, and the greatest in the Twentieth Century. (Just my opinion, of course.)
The poetry of both at times can be somewhat inaccessible, but it is always worth the effort (well, I’m still not convinced about Eliot’s “The Wasteland.”)
We’re going to look at poems without any biographical background. Just the words. In Eliot’s case, there also are many allusions, as in most of his poems, but I am going to point out only the most significant.
And perhaps the most significant reference is the opening quote, which is from Dante’s “LL’Inferno,” which Dante wrote in terza rima as I am sure you remember, as is apparent here. Keep this passage in mind as we go through the poem. Loosely, it translates as: “If I thought my answer were to one who could return to the world, I would not reply, but as none ever did return alive from this depth, without fear of infamy I answer thee.” The poet, who is on a journey through hell, questions various sinners. In this particular case, the sinner is saying that if he ever thought that the poet could go back in the world and relate what he was told, the sinner would never speak to him. But because he knows no one who enters hell ever leaves, he will speak.
The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock
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 rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised 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!]
It is 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 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 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.
You and I?
“Prufrock and a friend?”
“Prufrock and the reader?”
Either interpretation could be argued, and I would add, Prufrock and himself.
“The first and second lines sound like they are the beginning of a love poem, but then that killer simile of a patient etherised upon a table. Everything feels drugged.”
“And the following lines contain really depressing expressions, like ‘half-deserted streets,’ ‘muttering retreats,’ ‘restless nights,’ ‘one-night cheap hotels,’ etc.
“’sawdust restaurants,’ ‘tedious argument,’ ‘insidious intent.’”
Those last expressions build up to an overwhelming question. Then there is some ambiguity. Is Prufrock saying, “Don’t ask the question,” as if he doesn’t want to deal with it, whatever it is. Or is he saying , ”Don’t ask what the question is.”
“What about his name?”
Knowing Eliot, we expect this to be an allusion, but actually he has said that he just tried to create a name that seemed appropriate to his character.
“Where are they going?”
Anyone?
“To a party, kind of?”
What kind of party?
“A party where people talk about famous artists. Not our kind of party.”
Well, in part, remember when this was written-1915. And these aren’t teenagers.
“So, like a cocktail party.”
That’s fair to say.
Then?
“An extended metaphor comparing the fog to a cat?”
Yes. And more unpleasant images, with the repetition of the word, “yellow,” and other words like drains and soot.
“And the cat falls asleep, like the patient at the beginning. Everything is lifeless.”
What is he saying in the next section?
“That in this druggy world there will always be time to do something, which I think suggests that he puts things off. We all say stuff like that.”
Right, and that’s supported by the line “and for a hundred visions and revisions.” Never quite making final decisions. Why toast and tea?
“It sounds like a scene from Masterpiece Theater, all very proper and stuffy. This is what his life is like.”
More societal conversation. Then, following the lines about decisions, he asks, “Do I dare?”
“Dare to get involved in the party? Or should he turnaround and go back.”
“The next lines almost made me cry, they’re so, like, pathetic. If he does turnaround and go back down the stairs, they can see the top of his head, his bald spot, and he’s afraid they will comment on it in a negative way. That’s so sad.”
Pathetic is a good word here, although now it almost always is negative. In its original meaning, pathos meant to comprehend what another person is going through. We feel it so strongly because the poem is in the form of a dramatic monologue, one person revealing his or her thoughts and feelings.
“Like a soliloquy.”
Yes, but it stands alone and isn’t attached to a play or novel. He is so afraid of what others think that he wonders if can dare even to talk to them. Yet, in the poem, he is confiding the most intimate thoughts. This could support the idea that he is talking to himself, or to an anonymous reader.
“Well, pathos is sure continued when he describes his proper clothes, but is worried about people commenting on his skinny arms and legs.”
“And the really sad lines, ‘Do I dare disturb the universe?’ As if his little life has any significance in the universe.”
“That’s a great word to use. He feels he is insignificant.”
“But I think we also identify with him, in a way, and that upsets us. Most everyone has been in the position of feeling inadequate, afraid to ask someone out, afraid to try out for sports, afraid to take a poetry class. We don’t like him verbalizing our own fears.”
You make a terrific point. We really do feel his pain. He is damaged, as we would say today, and it’s painful to hear.
In the next section is the famous line, “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons,” again emphasizing his insignificance, as if cups of coffee are the momentous times in his life. And since he is so insignicant, how should he be presumtuous enough to start a conversation, etc.
Next section?
“This is brutal. He compares hiself to an insect that has been pinned to a wall while still alive. Only the pin is people’s eyes that pin you down with some judging phrase, like ‘He’s a loser.’”
“Even if he could talk to people, all he could talk about are the burned out–cigarette butts–parts of his life. So why bother?”
Next section?
“Ok, this is a little creepy. Bare arms, downed with light brown hair? Who looks at a woman that way? I guess I’m generalizing, but that’s how I see it.”
I agree that it is a little strange.
“And to say the perfume smell is from a dress instead of from a person. Again, a little strange.”
Okay. And then he asks, should I presume to talk to someone? And, if so, how should I begin.
“Should he begin describing lonely men like himself?”
“Not exactly the greatest introductory topic. No wonder he keeps silent.”
What’s the metaphor in the next two lines?
“He should have been a crab?”
Ever notice how a crab moves?
“Away?”
Backward and sideways, never forward. A perfect metaphor for Prufrock, scuttling away from any direct contact.
“Then again the etherized imagery. You know, many of the images, negative and all, are pretty beautiful. It’s as if Prufrock could say something worth hearing, if he had the guts.”
But he doesn’t have the guts, the inner strength to force the moment to its crisis. And though he has wept and fasted and prayed and imagined himself beheaded for a cause, in the last analysis he is no John the Baptist, and his life is no great matter. He has seen his life’s peak come and then go, and he didn’t seize the opportunity.
“Is the ‘eternal Footman’ death?”
Most probably. As in Dickinson’s “I could not stop for death.” A footman was responsible for various tasks around the household. Here he takes Prufrock’s coat, and Prufrock hears him snicker at Prufrock’s appearance. Even a footman has no respect for him. He finally comes out with it and states what keeps holding him back: fear.
Next section?
“Again he wonders if it would be worth the risk–the equal for him of rolling the universe into a ball–of coming back from his dead self–like Lazarus who Jesus brought back from the dead–yeah, I looked it up–would it be worth the risk of telling everything about himself, getting intimate, if the woman should say, ‘You misinterpreted our relationship,’ which is a huge blow to any guy’s ego. On our level, how many teenagers go through this all the time, wondering whether to ask somebody out. He has no self-confidence, so how can he ever get up the nerve? Poor guy.”
Wow, that was pretty terrific.
Next?
“He goes through more examples of what makes up his life, but sort of stammers and says, I can’t really explain it all.”
And then he uses the image of the magic lantern, an early form of a slide projector, throwing a picture of his nerves, his being really, on a wall for the woman to see. Is it worth the risk of baring his soul this way, if, once again, she says that he misinterpreted their relationship. Turning toward the window, as if she is turning her back on him. A devastating rejection. He just isn’t up to that risk.
Why would he think about comparing himself to Hamlet?
“Hamlet was also unable to make decisions about killing his uncle.”
And the last words in that line?
“Referring to Hamlet’s ‘to be or not to be’ soliloquy?”
Yes, only Prufrock doesn’t have Hamlet’s tragic life. Prufrock’s is mundane. So instead he identifies with a lesser character. Like?
“Rosencranz and Guildenstern.”
They aren’t really an attendant lord.
“Polonius!”
Yes, an easy tool, deferential, glad to be of use, politic, cautious, meticulous, full of high sentence, a bit obtuse, ridiculous, The Fool. Imagine describing yourself with these words. Of course Prufrock tries to create some distance for himself by saying that these are Polonius’ traits, but he identifies with Polonius, so the distancing doesn’t work.
“I thought the rhythm in the last two lines of that stanza was terrific. ‘At times [pause] indeed [pause] almost ridiculous [pause] almost [pause] at times [pause] The Fool. [end]’ It’s as though he’s stammering again because these words are too painful; he has to force them out.”
You got it. You all should take some time to read this out loud, so you can really feel the power of Eliot’s word choice.
“And line choice.”
Yes.
“In the next two lines, why would he wear his cuffs rolled up?”
Well, the usual interpretation is that he wants to look younger, more jaunty. But I feel that since this follows the “I grow old line,” there is also an undertone of growing shorter as we age, so he will have to roll up his cuffs to compensate.
There is the same ambiguity in the next sentence. The usual interpretation is that parting one’s hair behind was considered a little daring at that time. I again feel that aging undertone in that he wants to cover his bald spot.
“’Do I dare to eat a peach?’ First off, how daring is it to eat a peach. But also, maybe he is implying that his daring is not comparable to Adam and Eve eating an apple in the Garden of Eden, so he reduces the fruit to a peach.”
The next line supports the foremost interpretation of the earlier lines, in that he will try to look more daring and youthful by wearing white flannel trousers.
Mermaids?
“The sirens?”
How does that work?
“Well, the sirens were mermaids who sang to people traveling on the sea, in hopes of drawing them onto the rocks and wrecking their ships. I don’t know if I’m right, but I think he’s saying that he has heard the mermaids singing, but only to each other. He considers himself to be so insignificant, that even the sirens won’t bother to sing to him. Again, really sad.”
Final stanza?
“I think that this stanza supports the idea that he is talking to himself, since ‘we drown.’ This wouldn’t make sense if he was talking to another person.”
I would agree.
Meaning of these lines?
“In his fantasies, he dreams of being in the ocean, crowned by sea-girls–with red and brown seaweed, though, not green, the best. But while he’s daydreaming, people near him start talking, and that wakes him up while he’s underwater, so symbolically, he drowns.”
Yes, while he’s daydreaming he can escape the real world and live in his fantasies. But when his dreaming world is interrupted by the voices from the real world, he wakes up to the real world, where he cannot survive, symbolically, and he drowns.
I would like you to read the poem to yourselves now, when all the interpretive elements are lodged in your brain.
“Awesome.”
Well put. [grin] Next session we look at our final poem of the semester, as close to sonnet perfection as you can get, Yeats’ “Leda and the Swan.”
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