For my inaugural literary criticism post, I chose one of my favorite poems of all time, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot. It's what first brought Eliot his fame and is considered one of the greatest works of modernist literature. Ever since I first read “Prufrock” I have been pretty obsessed with it. I’m not sure why I love it so much—it is in no way positive or admirable; really what makes it good at all is not its subject matter but the genius of it and its beauty. Before we get started, go read the poem first. Prufrock is essentially the confession of a man who believes his confession will never be repeated by the listener—therefore he rambles in a stream-of-consciousness style narrative without “fear of infamy.” (To use the quotation from Dante which Eliot himself used to introduce the poem.) It honestly reminds me a great deal of a journal entry, though in reality it is even more disjointed than that. Prufrock is a man so hindered by his ...
There is no frigate like a book, to take us lands away - Emily Dickinson