A letter about the love song of j alfred prufrock portrait of a lady rhapsody on a windy night and p

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A letter about the love song of j alfred prufrock portrait of a lady rhapsody on a windy night and p

I mean, as a cultural phenomena I think it is generally Americans who use their middle name, but keep their first initial dangling, so J. Alfred Prufrock would It is an odd thing, but recently I read someone on this site say that they had always thought Eliot was English and was a bit surprised to find out that he was actually an American.

Alfred Prufrock would seem to fit that particular cultural mould. And it is not just Prufrock that is of indeterminate nationality — what about the fog? It was one of those books that young people are sometimes expected to read so as to learn how to read poetry.

There is an idea that poetry is such a terribly strange thing that only those who have been properly instructed will have any hope of ever reading it. I was flicking through the book and there was a section on this stanza of the love song. And since there is a similarity of sounds between them Eliot does that odd thing that poets sometimes like to, which is to get carried away and give the fog the literal characteristics of a dog.

This is a poem about a man who has reached a certain age — an age were he struggles to even sustain his fantasies. To me this is made clear by the line after the first couplet.

A letter about the love song of j alfred prufrock portrait of a lady rhapsody on a windy night and p

Of course, one is only ever etherized on a table to have something bad cut out of them. Every time Mr Prufrock starts getting a bit of a fantasy going — he might be chatting to a woman in a shawl or sniffing her perfume and saying things to her that might sound like the sorts of lines a woman listening to a man like him might even find a bit interesting - he worries that not only will she not find those things interesting, but even think that he has completely misunderstood what she is talking about.

He constantly undermines his own fantasies. As a case in point: 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. We start off with what could be exactly the sort of thing that you might think a woman would find interesting to chat about — the image of men leaning out of windows and smoking in the early evening is a very potent image and one that has stuck with me for years.

But immediately after thinking about this image Prufrock is plunged into a state of near total despair — it is hard to consider oneself more worthless than to imagine yourself as a pair of ragged claws — and of course that lovely piece of alliteration in which all of the 's' sounds imitate the sounds of ragged claws in their scuttling.

Whenever someone tells you they are not something in a poem, well, or in a novel, or even in life itself I suspect, it is probably best to think that they may well be exactly what they claim they are not. 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.

The fact he sees himself in terms that are even more self-deprecating does nothing to prove the negation he has set up — no matter how emphatic he is in saying No!. The two biblical references, John the Baptist and Lazarus, had been, I guess, sort of forerunners to Jesus.

John as the forerunner of Jesus as redeemer, and Lazarus as Jesus as resurrection. Prufrock in both cases says he is these people so perhaps I should do the opposite here, except that the image of John the Baptist being decapitated due to the sexual desires of someone else is a hint to something I also think that is going on here for Prufrock.

Pound said somewhere that poetry is about images, and the images here come thick and fast. It is also interesting to see how he undermines so many of the images he creates. There are so many things I love about this poem, there are even long sections of it that I know by heart.Examine Eliot’s treatment of women in Prufrock, Preludes, Portrait of a Lady and Rhapsody on a Windy Night In all four of the poems; ‘Prufrock’, ‘Preludes’, ‘Portrait of a Lady’ and ‘Rhapsody on a Windy Night’, Eliot makes references to women.

Feb 19,  · After teaching for a year or so he joined Lloyds Bank in the City of London in , the year in which he published his first volume, Prufrock and Other Observations.

In Poems was hand-printed by Leonard and Virginia Woolf. His first collection Pages: Rhapsody on a Windy Night Twelve o'clock.

A letter about the love song of j alfred prufrock portrait of a lady rhapsody on a windy night and p

Along the reaches of the street Held in a lunar synthesis, Whispering lunar incantations Dissolve the floors of the memory And all its clear relations, Its divisions and precisions, Every street lamp that I pass Beats like a fatalistic drum, And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes the memory As a .

Journal of Modern Literature () Writing in , F. R. Leavis claimed that "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" "constitutes an important event in the history of English poetry. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock and Other Observations has 17, ratings and reviews. Gaurav said: Poetry, if it is not to be a lifeless repetit The Love Song of J.

Alfred Prufrock and Other Observations has 17, ratings and reviews. Gaurav said: Poetry, if it is not to be a lifeless repetit. The Content, Themes, Diction and Imagery of 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock', 'Portrait of a Lady', 'Rhapsody on a Windy Night' and 'Preludes' 'The Love Song of J.

Alfred Prufrock', 'Portrait of a Lady', 'Rhapsody on a Windy Night' and 'Preludes' deal with the psychological impasse of the sensitive person from whom life has been withheld.

T.S. Eliot – The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock | Genius