a quick Eliot question..

[Clementyne]

Hello Everyone

I'm Clementyne and I'm new to this forum. I have a question that is quite confusing to me. Ok, so in T. S. Eliot's "A Love Song of J. Alfrerd Prufrock," Prufrock's self-doubt and lack of self-esteem is the reason why the poem is written in a kind of interior monologue or soliloquy where the speaker is constantly questioning himself. Thus, the language of the poem is considered to be conversational in its nature. However, my question is: can we consider Eliot's language to be colloquial or formal in this poem? The conversational element is making it hard for me to determine that.

Thanks in advance.

Clementyne

[Virgil]

Clementyne, first welcome to lit net. Nice to have you here. As to your Prufrock question, I would say it is colloquial, but colloquial for a highly literate person. I don't have the poem in front of me to give examples.

[Jean-Baptiste]

I would say it is colloquial, but colloquial for a highly literate person.

Very good way of saying it, Virgil. I agree completely.
Yes, there are some passages in the poem that seem to make it very formal, but if you consider the full character of Prufrock, these don't seems so formal, but merely his manner of expressing himself.

Yes, welcome to the forums, Clementyne.

I would like to hear what you have to offer in the way of specific passages that are suggesting one or the other form to you. I agree that there are two very different styles present, but I would like your specific choices. Thanks.

[Clementyne]

I'd like to thank both of you for your quick reply, and I agree with Jean-Baptiste, that was an excellent way of explaining it. I guess what confused me about the question was the fact that this poetic persona is very unique; it is obvious that he belongs to a high social class, however, the way he speaks and how he regards himself made me think twice before considering answering this question. The element of confusion also comes from the fact that even though the poem is colloquial, it is still strictly poetic. That is, what Prufrock talks about ranges from things that are said by a highly educated person to things that can be said by any uneducated person. The following references show his artistic, religious and literary awareness; they are examples of a person who uses what we may call a highly cultured language:
1- He mentions Michelangelo twice in the poem.
2- In line 52 he says: "I know the voices dying with a dying fall" which is a reference to a line from Orsino's speech in Shakespeare's Twelfth Night: "That strain again! It had a dying fall."
3- The second Shakespearean reference comes from the play Hamlet. In line 111-119, he says: "No! I am not prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be…" Even though Prufrock notices the similarity between him and the Danish prince—that of inaction and hesitation—he believes that unlike the prince, he will never resolve all that.
4- The epigraph of the poem is taken from Dante's Divine Comedy.
5- Line 23 "And indeed there will be time" is an allusion to the first line in Andrew Marvell's To His Coy Mistress "Had we but world enough, and time." And also in line 92 "To have squeezed the universe into a ball" referring to lines 41-44 "Let us roll all our strength and all / our sweetness up into one ball, / And tear our pleasures with rough strife / Thorough the iron gates of life."
6- In line 29 "And time for all the works and days of hands" is a reference to Hesiod's poem Work and Days.
7- In line 82-83 "Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter" is Biblical reference to John the Baptist.
8- Another Biblical reference is in line 94 when he says: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead.."

The following lines are examples of ordinary language spoken by a person who is not necessarily educated:
1- 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,
2- 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!")
3- 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;
4- Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
5- 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!)
6- 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?
7- 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.

Thanks again for your help and please tell me if I understood you correctly and if I'm on the right track

Clementyne

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 etherized 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!)
Is it 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 I
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.

[quasimodo1]

Dear Clementyne: Unfortunately for readers who hate writers that use allusions and in Eliot's case, in the extreme, you need to look into these references and some of them are quite obscure, even in foriegn languages. There's all kinds of info on the net about it and books gallore in stacks. You can get a feel for Eliot without this but ultimate understanding of the poet and the man requires some in depth research. quasimodo1