Author: LaMorteNoire

Thomas Stearns Eliot, more popularly known as T. S. Eliot, was a writer of great promise and, eventually, great success at the time when the Modernism literary movement was gaining traction. Eliot actually wrote the majority of his famous poem around 1910, but it wasn’t until fellow Modernist writer Ezra Pound discovered the work that Eliot, after some revisions, published it in 1917.

Eliot’s poem was considered revolutionary. Eliot deftly employs many of the standard techniques of Modernism to detail the experiences of the titular character and speaker. He incorporated themes of alienation, both from one’s self and society at large, fragmentation, the unconscious as a motivator for thought and behavior, and a decisively experimental form: rhyme is present but is highly irregular, meter is also irregular, and stanzas range in length from a mere two lines to as many as eleven lines in some places.

The result is that the reader discovers layers of self-doubt, self-mockery, and a lack of self confidence all interwoven into one grand tapestry whose threads feature themes of longing, ennui, paralysis, and introspection. These thematic threads can be analyzed individually, but, as soon as the reader tries to unravel one, the work perversely tightens in other places, making a definitive analysis or final meaning always beyond reach.

The opening line, “Let us go then, you and I” (1), would, at first glance, seem like an invitation to embark on a jaunt or escapade to a friend or partner, and may be romantic in nature. This interpretation is shattered in the next two lines, “When the evening is spread out against the sky/ Like a patient etherized upon a table” (2-3). This simile jolts the reader out of any romantic ideas he might have had and, instead, thrusts him into the cold and the clinical: the sky is not romantic and the speaker and his subject are not lovers going for an evening stroll, they are mentally anesthetized and the sky is inert and suspended, void of movement. This is a description of paralysis, not passion, and is a prime example of the technique of absurdity.

Eliot goes on to incorporate yet another technique of Modernism: fragmentation, specifically of the self. He never establishes precisely to whom it is that Prufrock is speaking. It is easy to assume that it is a companion of some sort, but an alternative interpretation is that Prufrock is actually conversing with himself. This internalized dialogue sets the poem’s whole tone and is thematically important, as it informs everything that comes after. Prufrock might, after all, be conversing with his own anxieties and insecurities, making both an unwilling tour guide as well as a bewildered tourist of his own mind, constantly asking, “How did I get here?”, and, “Where am I going?”

The poem also makes use of what is known as syntactical symbolism, which is when the diction and construction of a sentence reveals meaning beyond what the sentence simply says. Eliot chose to use the environment and its atmosphere to explore Prufrock’s alienation from both society as well as the world at large; this imagery is akin to a map of Prufrock’s mind and subconscious. The city is partially personified, as in the line, “The muttering retreats” (5), and partially psychic in nature, as in “…through certain half-deserted streets” (4) and “Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels” (6). Prufrock, through his diction and description, reveal a psychic landscape of loneliness and desperation. Even the yellowed fog is not spared: it is anthropomorphized as rubbing “…its back upon the window panes” (15), licking “…its tongue into the corners of the evening” (17), and lingering “…upon the pools that stand in drains” (18). The fog is Prufrock: existing in the world but never truly comfortable in it. These images partly reveal and partly reflect Prufrock’s interior: the streets meander like his own indecision; the “…women {that} come and go/ Talking of Michelangelo” (13-14) represent his longing for companionship with the ‘fairer sex’ coupled with his fear of being rejected and derided for not being sufficiently cultured.

Eliot also employed repetition to great effect. Prufrock’s internal repeating thought that, “And indeed there will be time,” (23) and, “There will be time, there will be time,” (26), seem like a soothing, reassuring mantra, but is actually a cleverly hidden trap. Assuring himself that he has copious amounts of time still actually enables Prufrock in his perpetual procrastination. This turns the repetition into something more like a spell or incantation, bewitching Prufrock into comfortable stagnation. The line, “And indeed there will be time/ To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”’ shows the trap snapping shut: Prufrock is allotted time but not action.

Yet another technique Eliot employed was the theme of absolute alienation, not just from other people or the world, but from Profrock’s own physical body. Here, the body is utilized as a source of even more anxiety and self-doubt. Prufrock is so self-conscious that it borders on pathological. He is insecure about his balding pate, as demonstrated in the lines, “With a bald spot in the middle of my hair~/ (They will say: How his hair is growing thin!”) (40-41), as well as his declining physique, as evidenced by line 44: “(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”). Every supposed ‘deficiency’ amplifies his sense of inadequacy and reinforces his sense of alienation. His body has become an obstacle, an encumbrance, not an extension of agency or zest.

One of the reasons that a definitive interpretation of this poem is so elusive is due to what I like to call ‘The Absent Grand Question’. Prufrock wonders, “Do I dare/ Disturb the universe?” (45-46), but Prufrock, paralyzed, procrastinating Prufrock, never reveals what question he wishes to ask, nor what action on his part would “Disturb the universe.” It is left to be inferred, never resolved: is it a romantic confession (or at least one of desire) that is so crucial that he simply cannot bear to give voice to it? The reader is left unsatisfied, to wonder eternally: What was it? This unasked question echoes silently in the cave of negative space it creates which is a void filled with dread. Paradoxically, not to mention masterfully, the lingering silence is louder than any confession could be.

Prufrock’s final undoing is his conjuring up a bevy of mermaids, sensual singing sirens who represent erotic possibilities and beauty. But, almost as quickly as he has done thus, he reflexively disqualifies himself immediately, “I do not think that they will sing to me.” (125) This line is akin to shutting the door upon wonder, myth, and sensual fulfillment. These things exist, but not for Prufrock (or so he believes), furthering his alienation. The final line, “Til human voices wake us, and we drown,” (131) exposes the flaw of Prufrock existing only in his fantasies: when roused by an intruding force, he drowns under the weight of the real world, a world he cannot navigate, let alone enter.

In his youth, poet John Donne wrote racy libertine verse that insulted women and advocated for intercourse with multiple partners. The subject matter of his poems changed when he fell in love with his employer’s niece, Anne More, and married her. Nuptial bliss seemed to alter Donne’s outlook and priorities, which can be seen reflected in his later works, works like “The Sun Rising” and “The Canonization”. It’s easy to imagine Donne composing these odes to and about Anne. As a writer, Donne belongs to the school of poetry known as ‘Metaphysical’ poetry. Metaphysical poetry is widely known for containing a ‘conceit’: an odd and lengthy comparison between two things that bear little in common. For instance, Donne once wrote a poem where he compared a tear to a navigator’s globe. Conceits differ from simple metaphors in that they are sustained throughout the length of the poem; they can also be played with by reversing the conceit, adding new conceits, and so on.

Donne’s “The Sun Rising” is a stellar example of his wit, dexterity, and authenticity of sentiment. The speaker and his beloved (let’s presume that they are Donne and Anne) awake next to each other in bed. They are so content with the scene and so very in love that they fear any intrusion on their perfect bliss. But intruded upon they are are, only it’s not his employer nor her father, but the morning sun peering through the window and the curtains like a prying neighbor. The rising sun signals the start of a new day and chores to be done, appointments to be kept, food to be bought and prepared, and so on. It’s normally regarded as a harbinger off possibility, for the day is young and anything could happen. But Donne and Anne rue the intruding sun, for it is an interruption on their intimacy and love:

“Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,/ Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of

time.” (lines 9-10)

Donne and Anne feel that they are above such mortal constraints as time; they believe that their love frees them from having to rise and attend to their duties. Donne implies that love keeps its own hours and schedule. Indeed, the pair believe that they are exactly where they should be: in bed and in love.

Donne is so angry at the intrusion of the sun that he starts calling the sun unsavory names, like “Busy old fool” (1), “unruly” (1), and “Saucy pedantic wretch.” (5). This is Donne’s conceit: he has personified the sun, treating it as if it were a person. He suggests other things the sun should go do in place of intruding upon the couple, telling the orb to “….go chide/ Late school boys and sour prentices,/ Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride,/ Call country ants to harvest offices….” (5-8), anything other than disturb his love. Donne is petulantly peeved at the sun, an inanimate thing, and responds by acting as if the sun were intentionally interrupting his lying with his beloved Anne. In Donne’s view, not only is the sun intruding, it is actively choosing to do so. He asks of the sun: “Why dost thou thus /Through windows and through curtains call on us?” (2-3) The lovers want to be left alone, and the intruding beams of light are interrupting their time- together as if the sun had knocked at the door and then burst into their chamber.

Donne’s response is to flip the conceit and aver that he is the sun and, thus, has all of the powers and attributes of the star. He mocks the sun for presuming that it has any power in this situation, asking: “Thy beams, so reverend and strong/ Why shouldst thou think?” (11-12), which is Donne’s way of dismissing the sun’s strength and influence. He then boasts that he, himself, is the sun and asserts that “I could eclipse and cloud them (the sun’s beams) with a wink.” (14). Not only is Donne now the sun, but he can do what the sun does “with a wink”, that is to say, more easily. The only thing preventing him from making good on his boast is the fact that, if he did, his beloved would not be able to see him: “But that I would not lose her sight so long.” (14) He then goes on to flip the conceit once more and states that Anne is the sun: “If her eyes have not blinded thine” (15), which suggests that Anne, too, wields the power of the sun’s rays and can blind the true sun just by looking at it.

Donne than avers that everything that is of worth or wealth in the world is already present with him and that, “Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,” (25) He concludes his piece by averring that, since the sun is intent on shining, then it is best that it it warm the couple:

“….and since thy duties be

To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.

Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;

This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.” (27-30)

Donne vacillates from ruing the rising sun, to claiming that he is superior, to, finally, putting the star to work in warming the couple as they lie in bed in love.

Another of Donne’s works, “The Canonization”, also focuses on love, and, once again, the speaker is trying to be prevented from loving. The piece opens mid- intervention: someone or a group of people are trying to dissuade the speaker from loving, because they deem the love immoral, impractical, inappropriate, or embarrassing. The speaker, however, wants none of this criticism, he retorts, “For God’s sake, hold your tongue, and let me love,” (1) He clearly feels that this unsolicited

advice is unnecessary and lists other critiques that he would rather hear instead, critiques of his manhood, state, age, reputation, and fortune. He would rather be subjected to disapproval of any of these than be prevented from loving.

The speaker has some suggestions of his own for his critics:

“  With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,

                Take you a course, get you a place,

                Observe his honor, or his grace,

Or the king’s real, or his stampèd face

          Contemplate; what you will, approve,

          So you will let me love.” (4-9)

He is essentially telling his detractors that their energies would be better spent on other pursuits; he cares not what they are, so long as he is left alone to love. Presumably, these very pursuits are the things his critics believe the speaker should be striving for. The fact that he is not turns his love into an act of rebellion: he will not do as the others do, he will do what he wants, and that is to love.

The speaker asks the rhetorical question of his critics, “Alas, alas, who’s injured by my love?” (10) and proceeds to list all the ways in which his love has not harmed anyone. Rather, life appears to be running its usual course:

“Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still

          Litigious men, which quarrels move,

          Though she and I do love.” (16-18)

But his critics are treating his love as if it were a threat to the stability of the status quo and must be contained or halted, a sentiment the speaker is clearly arguing against.

The speaker’s defiant countermove is to frame his love as a spiritually productive entity. He retorts:

“We can die by it, if not live by love,

         And if unfit for tombs and hearse

Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;” (28-30)

It’s almost as if the speaker, in a moment of enlightenment or foreseeing the future, has predicted the composition of this very poem. He resists his detractors, refuses their pleas, and, essentially, makes a religion out of his love, canonizing the thing he values above all else.