Next April 25, writer Álvaro Pombo is visiting us. He is going to talk about this amazing poem, T. S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" (the grey text is a link), so we thought you might want to read it or listen to it. To listen, check out our YouTube account - we found two amazing versions (one by a man, another by a woman)!
Enjoy it all & feel free to comment here!
21 de abril de 2008
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
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Como no se como se hace un link solo puedo copiar, ahí va un comentario sobre el poema:
T.S. Eliot
"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"(1915)
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OVERVIEW:
The speaker of this ironic monologue is a modern, urban man who, like many of his kind, feels isolated and incapable of decisive action. Irony is apparent from the title, for this is not a conventional love song. Prufrock would like to speak of love to a woman, but he does not dare.
The poem opens with a quoted passage from Dante's INFERNO, suggesting that Prufrock is one of the damned and that he speaks only because he is sure no one will listen. Since the reader is overhearing his thoughts, the poem seems at first rather incoherent. But Prufrock repeats certain phrases and returns to certain core ideas as the poem progresses. The "you and I" of the opening line includes the reader, suggesting that only by accompanying Purfrock can one understand his problems.
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The images of the opening lines depict a drab neighborhood of cheap hotels and restaurants, where Prufrock lives in solitary gloom. In line 12 he suggests making a visit, and immediately his mind calls up an image of the place he and the reader will go-- perhaps an afternoon tea at which various women drop in and engage in polite chitchat about Michelangelo, who was a man of great creative energy, unlike Prufrock.
The next stanza creates an image of the dull, damp autumn evening when the tea party will take place. In the rest of the poem Prufrock imagines his arrival, his attempt to converse intimately with the woman whose love he seeks, and his ultimate failure to make her understand him. Prufrock has attended such parties many times and knows how it will be, and this knowledge makes him hesitate out of fear that any attempt to push beyond mere polite conversation, to make some claim on the woman's affections, will meet with a frustratingly polite refusal.
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So Prufrock simultaneously plans his approach and tells himself that he can put off the action. The phrase "There will be time," repeated five times between lines 23 and 36, represents his hesitation and delay. When he says in lines 44 and 45 "Do I dare/ Disturb the universe?," the universe he is referring to is his small social circle of middle-class acquaintances. He would disturb its equilibrium if he actually tried to sing a "love song" to one of them. He already "knows them all" and knows that they do not expect much from him. He tries, starting at line 70, to rehearse a speech he might make to one particular woman, but he gives up almost as soon as he has started, saying that it would be better to be merely a crab rather than a human being who has to make love speeches and ask for affection.
Deciding not to try, Prufrock questions whether his efforts would have been worthwhile. He excuses his fear by rationalizing that his speaking to the woman would not have achieved any real response. In line 110 Prufrock contrasts himself to Hamlet, a hero who hesitated but finally acted decisively. But Prufrock sees himself as more like Polonius, the old fool from the same play. Prufrock will retreat into a solitary, dignified old age. He has gone past dreams of romance into the sober but empty existence of a passionless old man.
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PRUFROCK AS MODERN MAN
For many readers in the 1920s, Prufrock seemed to epitomize the frustration and impotence of the modern individual. He seemed to represent thwarted desires and modern disillusionment. Such phrases as "I have measured out my life in coffee spoons" (line 51) capture the sense of the unheroic nature of life in the twentieth century. Prufrock's weaknesses could be mocked, but he is a pathetic figure, not grand enough to be tragic.
[from Kathleen McCoy's and Judith Harlan's ENGLISH LITERATURE FROM 1785 (New York: HarperCollins, 1992: 265-66)]
T.S. Eliot
(Missouri, USA, 1888-Londes, 1965)
PRUFROCK Y OTRAS OBSERVACIONES (1917)
LA CANCIÓN DE AMOR DE J. ALFRED PRUFROCK
Si yo creyera que mi respuesta fuera
a una persona que alguna vez podría retornar al mundo,
esta llama, sin más, quieta estuviera;
pero ya que jamás desde este fondo
escapa un ser humano, sí escuché verdad,
sin temor a la infamia te respondo.
VAYAMOS, PUES, TÚ y yo
cuando la tarde se haya tendido contra el cielo
como un paciente eterizado sobre una mesa;
vayamos, entonces, por calles casi desiertas,
murmurantes retrocesos
de noches inquietas en hoteles baratos y de una noche
y empolvadas fondas con conchas de ostras;
calles que se prolongan como un argumento aburrido
de intención tediosa
que te llevan a una pregunta abrumadora...
Oh, no preguntes “¿Qué es?”
Vayamos a hacer nuestra visita.
En la habitación, las mujeres vienen y van
hablando de Miguel Ángel.
La niebla amarilla que lava su espalda en el cristal de las vidrieras,
el humo amarillo que lava su hocico en el cristal de las vidrieras
pasó su lengua por el interior de las esquinas de la tarde,
se quedó suspenso largo tiempo sobre los charcos de las cunetas,
dejó caer sobre su espalda el tizne que cae de las chimeneas,
se deslizó por la terraza, dio un salto súbito,
y, viendo que era una noche suave de octubre,
se enroscó una vez a la casa y se quedó dormido.
Y, en verdad, habrá tiempo
para el humo amarillo que se desliza a lo largo de la calle,
frotando su espalda sobre el cristal de las vidrieras;
habrá tiempo, habrá tiempo
para preparar un rostro que acepte los rostros que encuentres,
habrá tiempo para matar, habrá tiempo para crear
y tiempo para todas las labores y los días hábiles
que levanten y dejen caer una pregunta en tu plato;
habrá tiempo para tí y habrá tiempo para mí,
y habrá tiempo incluso para cien indecisiones,
y habrá tiempo para cien visiones y revisiones
antes de que tomemos una tostada y té.
En la habitación, las mujeres vienen y van
hablando de Miguel Ángel.
Y en verdad habrá tiempo
para preguntarse “¿Me atrevo?” y, “¿Me atrevo?”
Habrá tiempo para volverse atrás y bajar la escalera
con un lugar calvo en mitad de mi pelo.
(Dirán: “¡Qué ralo se le está poniendo el pelo!”)
Mi traje matinal, mi cuello que sube firmemente al mentón,
mi corvata, rica y modesta pero asegurada por un simple alfiler.
(Dirán: “Pero, ¡qué delgados son sus brazos y sus piernas!”)
¿Me atrevo
a perturbar el universo?
En un minuto hay tiempo
para decisiones y revisiones que un minuto revocarán.
Porque ya las he conocido a todas, a todas ellas:
he conocido las noches, las mañanas, las tardes,
he medido mi vida con cucharillas de café;
conozco las voces que mueren poco a poco
bajo la música llegada de un cuarto distante.
Entonces, ¿cómo podría yo atreverme?
Y he conocido ya los ojos, todos ellos:
los ojos que nos fijan en una frase formulada,
y cuando esté yo formulado, debatiéndome en un alfiler,
cuando yo esté clavado y retorciéndome en la pared,
¿cómo podría entonces empezar
a escupir todas las colillas de mis días y de mis costumbres?
¿Y cómo podría atreverme?
Y he conocido ya los brazos, todos ellos:
brazos con brazaletes y blancos y desnudos.
(¡Pero bajo la lámpara poblado de claros vellos castaños!)
¿Es acaso el pefume de un vestido
lo que así me hace divagar?
Brazos que reposan sobre una mesa o se envuelven en un chal.
¿Y podría yo entonces atreverme?
¿Y cómo podría empezar?
¿Diré: fui, al crepúsculo, por calles estrechas
y contemplé el humo que sale de las pipas de hombres solitarios,
asomados a sus ventanas, en mangas de camisa?..
Yo debí ser un par de manos andrajosas
que rasaron los suelos de mares silenciosos.
¡Y la tarde, la noche, duerme tan apaciblemente!
Alisada por largos dedos,
dormida... fatigada... o bien se hace la enferma,
extendida en el suelo, aquí junto a ti y a mí.
¿Tendría yo, después del té y los pasteles y los helados,
la fuerza para forzar el momento a su crisis?
Pero aunque he llorado y ayunado, llorado y orado,
y aunque vi mi cabeza (ya un poco calva) traída en una bandeja,
no soy profeta (pero esto no importa mucho);
he visto flaquear el momento de mi grandeza
y he visto al eterno lacayo recibir mi abrigo y sonreír estupidamente,
y, en suma, tuve miedo.
¿Y habría valido la pena, después de todo,
después de las tazas, la mermelada, el té,
entre la porcelana, entre alguna conversación sobre ti y sobre mi,
hubiera valido la pena
haber hincado el diente en el asunto con una sonrisa,
haber comprimido el universo en una bola
para rodarlo hacia alguna pregunta abrumadora,
para decir: “Soy Lázaro, vuelto de entre los muertos,
vuelto para decirsélo todo, se lo diré todo”.
Si una, acomodando una almohada junto a su cabeza,
dijera: “No es eso lo que quise decir, no es eso.
No se trata, en absoluto, de eso”.
Y hubiera valido la pena, después de todo,
hubiera valido la pena,
después de los ocasos y de los patios y de las calles regadas,
después de las novelas, después de las tazas de café, después
de las faldas que arrastran por el piso
(y esto, y tanto más).
¡Es imposible decir exactamente lo que quiero decir!
Pero como si una linterna mágica proyectara los nervios en
modelos sobre una pantalla:
¿Habría valido la pena
si una, acomodando una almohada o quitádose un chal
y volviéndose hacia la ventana, hubiera dicho:
“No es eso, en absoluto,
no es eso lo que quise decir, en absoluto”.
¡No! No soy el príncipe Hamlet ni es mi intención serlo,
soy un señor cortesano, uno que servirá
para llenar una pausa, iniciar una escena o dos,
aconsejar al príncipe; sin duda, un instrumento dócil,
obediente, contento de servir,
político, precavido, meticuloso,
lleno de altos conceptos, pero un poquito obtuso;
a veces, en verdad, casi rídiculo:
casi, a veces, el Bufón.
Envejezco... Envejezco...
Usaré enrollados los extremos de mi pantalón.
¿Me peinaré el cabello hacia atrás?
¿Me atrevo a comer un melocotón?
Me pondré pantalones de franela blanca y caminaré por la playa.
Allí he oído a las sirenas cantándose una a otra.
No creo que canten para mí.
Las he visto cabalgar sobre las olas, mar adentro,
peinando los blancos cabellos de las olas revueltas
cuando el soplo del viento vuelve el agua blanca y negra.
Nos hemos quedado en los dormitorios del mar
al lado de muchachas marinas
coronadas de algas marinas rojas y pardas
hasta que voces humanas nos despiertan, y nos ahogamos.
En 1917 aparece su primer gran poema: La canción de amor de J. Alfred Prufrock. La obra, probablemente la más citada de Eliot, evidencia ya la intensa vocación experimental de su autor. Está estructurada como monólogo dramático, a la manera de Robert Browning, utilizando la técnica del monólogo interior o "stream of consciousness", que pocos años después pondría muy de moda James Joyce. Como en trabajos posteriores, Prufrock se halla repleto de citas y alusiones de todo tipo, con una especial atención a Dante y Shakespeare (Hamlet).
Paloma thank you for these wonderful comments and the translation which is fantastic for all the beginners and intermediates that we have. Tomorrow I am going to tell them to read it. The critical comments are very convenient too because I find the poem very difficult to understand so having them is a great help. Michelle thanks for putting this up it is fantastic that we have it
Thanks Paloma, it is very convenient to have the translation and explanations, since this is a difficult poem, not so much for its language and vocabulary, but because of its meaning. The question being what is he trying to say? I recommend reading it 4 times... quite something.
Unfortunately poetry is usually a big issue for me. I’ve followed Carmen’s advise and I’ve read the poem several times, out loud, reciting it with feeling, taking the place of Prufrock, imagining myself in love and not to dare to say anything to the person I love. Perhaps feeling I am not good enough, I don’t worth enough. And, most important, expecting a refusal. That way the poem becomes easier to understand and very beautiful. By the way, I’m not in the first or second year but I must recognise I’ve needed to read the poem in both languages, English and Spanish. (Can you imagine the scene, me, alone in my living room, in my pyjamas, reciting out laud in English with my terrible accent! and trying to modulate properly and give dramatic quality to the poem? I suppose it has been similar to Mr. Winkle mounting the horse or Mr. Pickwick driving the chaise).Anyway, joking aside; the poem is beautiful and shows very well all the fear and the insecurity that often many people feel when have to propose.
The poem for me is not about love, it is about defeat, about imagining a wonderful life love, friends, success and meeting with failure but of the worst kind that which comes of your inability to succeed. It´s about loneliness when you want to share. It´s about the incapacity of social(?) triumph, it´s about being an occidental outcast which has brought all this on himself.
First of all, thanks Paloma, you are always sharing your information and knowledge. Well, today after my morning class with Alfred Prufrock, I am still in shock. Everything from the beginning to the end is a tragic. The poem is as sad as real with an unexpected title “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”., it could be “The Desperate Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”
I think, this poem is about love as universal meaning and of course If you don´t have love ( any kind of love) you are and feel alone. This man is desesperate, but with resignation, he is unable to change his life and this is terrible.
On the other hand, I was watching and listening the videos in YouTube, but I think, no one achieves to be so dramatic as the poem of T.S. Eliot.
This poem reminds me something Sir Alfred Hitchcock said in and interview related to his career and the incredible situations in which the protagonists are involved. “In this world there are two kinds of people: Those participating in life and those observing it. I am an observer”. Mr. Prufock obviously could be included in the second group, too. And it is in the human being identity that we realize the chances we have lost when it is too late. What a shame!
Roberto a very clever comment. I must say I find the poem very difficult. Dámaso López has just told us that he translated the poem and he says it is not easy to understand! So no wonder we find it a little hard!
Roberto very well linked with Hitchcock. you will be lecturing quite soon!!
I must say that I find the poem extremely difficult to make out. For me it´s very sad and frustrating but Álvaro Pombo said it was a love song and had more meaning than "me gustas cuando callas.." there is something in that:
After our event, we went to this birthday and one of the guests, whom we used to see "in younger and happier days" said that me and my sister were tremendously popular with him and his friends!! I asked why they had not said so then!!!!! He said they didn´t dare!!!! He added that they roamed the streets and bars looking for us!!!!
First I was remainded of Prufrock, then I felt like insulting him (I think I did). We would have been very happy to know then, don´t you think? But now it has absolutely no meaning, only one of sorrow "there is no time.."
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