"I should have been a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas." Still my favorite line. It's the lowest point of Prufrock's sad realization of his life and anxieties.
I discovered this poem after watching this movie The Lobster and that line to me symbolizes solitude, although a self-imposed one. (In the movie, The Lobster, the protagonist enrolls himself into a dating hotel, where they are matched based on a pre-profile questionnaire and other things, not on love. If they fail to find love in the 2 weeks or so they are allowed there, they turn into an animal. He chooses Lobster, so he can travel alone on the sea floor. And because they are “blue blooded”)
@@asbestosbunny He doesn't enroll himself, he's forced to attend the program after his wife leaves him for someone else. The movie implies being single is illegal in this society, as evident when they go shopping in the city and have to pretend to be couples or they will get arrested.
I love to wander through this poem over and over again without any great depth of understanding but enjoying the images which are sometimes ruthless and sometimes comforting. As I grow older some parts seem prophetic and as I remember, some parts are unbearably sad. I love great poetry like a dragon loves its hoard and like the dragon there is never enough. When I was a young stupid boy I did not like this poet but that boy was killed.
I like the pacing, direct, to the point, not too self indulgent. Hopkins beautifully captures the resigned sadness of the poem's speaker. One of the best readings of a poem on youtube, in my opinion.
Yeah that line has stuck with me since i found this poem at 17. Such a haunting inescapable conclusion. He's got those opening and closing lines down pat. lol
Thank you for posting this impressive reading. To my ear, Hopkins strikes the right note of anxious melancholy. He becomes Pufrock, & leads me to that overwhelming question time & time again.
I have to listen to this poem/ reading at least twice a day. I think Eliot knew something profound and deep that he just gives us hints about in Prufrock. Blows my mind what words can do!! Blows my mind that he was only 22 when he wrote this!!!
My take is that Eliot, who was also a playwright, has created a dramatic character who is brimming over with bitter resentments and disappointments, and who is in a hurry to tell us about them. The quick pace also suggests that time is rushing by Prufrock, though at certain points Hopkins slows down to catch the underlying sadness. Perhaps we've become so used to elegaic readings of almost all poetry that we fail to see the poem's dramatic core, which Hopkins' fine reading reveals.
It's actually a comedy of manners in an age when manners were seen to the door and handed its hat. Getting ever closer to the middle of the 20th century and the end of the world as we know it. Do you feel fine?
The inconsequential nature of human pursuits and life. Couldn't have been explained better. Our words can stand nowhere close to explaining what Sir Eliot put forth so beautifully in words.
Perhaps one could argue that Hopkins' rather fast speed in reading is reflective of the very theme of time itself within the poem. Time passes by quickly and without mercy. You can't take a time out or ask for temporary respite from time like Prufrock tries. Before you know it, much like Prufrock, you find that everything has ended before you even knew it. So in a way, Anthony Hopkins' delivery may have been quite purposeful in drawing greater emphasis to the irony of Prufrock's claims that "there will be time" when really, in his heart he knows that that's just an excuse. Any way, that's how I look at it personally.
I first heard this poem from my 7th grade English teacher. The first time he did attendance for the class when he got to my name he started reciting the poem, I was completely confused until he explained the poem to me and since then I have loved it. It really makes me wonder if J Alfred Prufrock was a real person and if there could somehow be a relation if he was.
He seems to say, "I get no respect," "Where is the sacred," "Where is a euphoric moment?" "I fear my mortality." "I make no connections with people." "I am Mediocre, I must live with it."
@@JiMMY-my1ds Well, it wouldn't be difficult (time permitting) to list 500. To claim something as "the greatest piece of literature ever written" suggests that you've at least read all of Homer, Dante, Sophocles, Shakespeare, Milton, Blake, Euripides, Tolstoy, Chaucer, Aeschylus, etc, and for some reason I'm suspecting you haven't. Even sticking to poetry alone it would be easy. "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" is neither a song nor about love, and seems to be written from the vantage point of a procrastinator who gets hung up on domestic banalities like "Do I dare eat a peach?" and wondering how to wear his trousers. The man clearly wears his collar tight and is vacuous. The reading of the poem here is very fine, and the poem itself is original, though I can't help disliking the speaker. He himself admits he's less than a full crab.
@@jimnewcombe7584 ahh I see what this is… you fancy yourself a bit of a literary buff and need to shit on others enjoyment of Prufrock to affirm your ‘superior’ knowledge and stroke your ego. What a joke. No doubt you sit round with ‘friends’ probably drinking wine and cheese reciting your favourite poems. Patting each other on the back. Stop with the wank. You have no way of providing any evidence that Prufrock is any worse than anything you’ve listed. Pretentious git. I’m still waiting on you 100 ‘better’ pieces.. or is it 500 now?🙄
TS Eliot's own belief was that once he composed his poem, it was its own living organism. It would be free to be interpreted by its readers. A poem can mean anything it wants. Although Hopkins does read it quickly, in his own way, he probably interprets it differently than others. That's how Eliot intended it to be. I believe that it's only respectful to go on that belief. :) Everyone has their own way of reading it.
I had no idea this existed! Anthony Hopkins is my favorite actor and perhaps even my favorite person, and I can't sleep at night and just randomly think, hey maybe he has ever read a book or something. This is awesome!
I was a total flake and a stupid boy at school but my parents sent me to the best schools and sometimes in a mundane world I want to hear again the voice of my crazy old teacher so I activate the electric mist and listen to poems like this and I am comforted that out there excellence exists. I cannot remember how I once said in Latin - "She was always the fastest of ships" or in Ancient Greek "They sailed on a wine dark sea."
I have a similar story, and also took latin. This poem brings me back to when I was 15 in english class. We worked on the poem for a week. I still remember the first few lines word for word because of how many times we read it aloud in class.
The recitation of poetry is an art form, and there are different ways different artists go about it. It doesn't have to be commonplace and usual to be a viable way of performing said art form.
Andrew--Eliot was an American poet:) He was born in St. Louis and moved to England as a young man. He goes down as both a British and an American poet. This is a great reading! I think it is better than Eliot reading it.
I believe he speaks in a rapid verse because that would mirror the fast pace that life takes toward the inevitable conclude."My life had crawled past me till I looked up and it was over!".Our longevity is so often interrupted by death.
the inflection of the man Prufrock is captured in Mr.Hopkins delivery of the piece.It is deliberate and simple,quite like our characters recant of his own life.He feels his life is not profound in any way,so our reciter has captured the way Prufrock feels.Mr.Hopkins is no Eliot,nor does he pretend.I myself,find Eliot to be comparable to all Victorian era poets,they tend to be very loud and essential with very little inflection in the refrain.
Eliot, like Pound and most if not all of the Modernists, was very concerned with the loss of tradition and increase of commercialism. He felt that a disconnection from tradition and feeling causes a kind of animalistic autonomy and cheapening of the human condition. This poem is probably a reflection of loneliness, death, and old age. Perhaps an idea of life without the experience of real love or a disconnection from society. The Waste Land would probably explain it better, if actually fully understood...
But it's also about a particular kind of Englishman, bred in a particular way, cultivated, yet ravaged and hollowed by privilege and no resistance or conflict, world-weary yet completely naive and parochial.
Overall an excellent reading. Hopkins’ voice is just right and he allows the poem to be itself, ie does not dramatize excessively, as Burton does with some of his readings. I do think this poem must be read a little more slowly for optimum effect.
I know there are a lot of complaints about the speed at which he is reading. Study the rhythm of the poem for a minute and I believe it will make a lot more sense. In fact, try reading it aloud and you will see that the first few stanzas are akward when read slow or clipped.
"Let us go then" ... but where and why and how long shall we go there and what happens when we finish? Such a moving poem read by such a wonderful man.
I dont mind the way Mr. Hopkins has read this. It most definitely is quick, and I think that is because he hasn't carefully taken the punctuation of this poem into consideration. The punctuation is intentional, and Eliot (and all good poets) used commas and semicolons to give the poem a certain pace.
I've always loved this poem, but I come to share with you all that I've realized, after a long time, that I'm not J Alfred Prufrock anymore, but prince Hamlet
Michael Meyers book "patterns" referred me to this poem. it truthfully is a strong poem and although I determine his true purpose behind this poem I can understand that he/ T.S. Elliot is pointing how life is valued in his time. To contrasting values from his youth to new developing ones.
Tony is perfect for stressing the... well stress with his pacing. Prufrock is consumed with social anxiety and I can feel how ridiculous the situations really are. But poems like this aren't always meant to be voiced.
Someone mentioned benedict cumberbatch and how he should say this .... Well matter of fact, this is one of the poets that benedict knows off by heart... That's what brought me here
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 5 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…. 10 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, 15 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, 20 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; 25 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; 30 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 35 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- 40 (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 45 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, 50 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- 55 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? 60 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 65 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 70 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! 75 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? 80 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, 85 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, 90 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”- 95 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, 100 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! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 105 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.” . . . . . . . . 110 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, 115 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 … 120 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. 125 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 130 Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
"I should have been a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas." Still my favorite line. It's the lowest point of Prufrock's sad realization of his life and anxieties.
I love that that line also. But for me
"I do not think that they will sing to me."
always leaves me in tears
It hits me hard
I discovered this poem after watching this movie The Lobster and that line to me symbolizes solitude, although a self-imposed one. (In the movie, The Lobster, the protagonist enrolls himself into a dating hotel, where they are matched based on a pre-profile questionnaire and other things, not on love. If they fail to find love in the 2 weeks or so they are allowed there, they turn into an animal. He chooses Lobster, so he can travel alone on the sea floor. And because they are “blue blooded”)
@@asbestosbunny He doesn't enroll himself, he's forced to attend the program after his wife leaves him for someone else. The movie implies being single is illegal in this society, as evident when they go shopping in the city and have to pretend to be couples or they will get arrested.
@@singram great line 💯
I love to wander through this poem over and over again without any great depth of understanding but enjoying the images which are sometimes ruthless and sometimes comforting. As I grow older some parts seem prophetic and as I remember, some parts are unbearably sad. I love great poetry like a dragon loves its hoard and like the dragon there is never enough. When I was a young stupid boy I did not like this poet but that boy was killed.
I like the pacing, direct, to the point, not too self indulgent. Hopkins beautifully captures the resigned sadness of the poem's speaker. One of the best readings of a poem on youtube, in my opinion.
Yes. He gets it. He understands this poem.
It's a terrible feeling when every word of this poem strikes you with clarity and you know them to be true and happening.
That's the beauty of this entire movement in poetry. For once, literature that reflects the truth, rather than fantasy
Excellent! The exact type of voice that is in my head when I read this poem.
The way Hopkins orates that last line gives me goosebumps
Yeah that line has stuck with me since i found this poem at 17. Such a haunting inescapable conclusion. He's got those opening and closing lines down pat. lol
Thank you for posting this impressive reading. To my ear, Hopkins strikes the right note of anxious melancholy. He becomes Pufrock, & leads me to that overwhelming question time & time again.
I have to listen to this poem/ reading at least twice a day. I think Eliot knew something profound and deep that he just gives us hints about in Prufrock. Blows my mind what words can do!! Blows my mind that he was only 22 when he wrote this!!!
22? Really!? Wow.
22 years old when he wrote it. 22. Think of that.
Exquisite. The poem, the author and the reader. Makes me cry, always did.
My take is that Eliot, who was also a playwright, has created a dramatic character who is brimming over with bitter resentments and disappointments, and who is in a hurry to tell us about them. The quick pace also suggests that time is rushing by Prufrock, though at certain points Hopkins slows down to catch the underlying sadness. Perhaps we've become so used to elegaic readings of almost all poetry that we fail to see the poem's dramatic core, which Hopkins' fine reading reveals.
It's actually a comedy of manners in an age when manners were seen to the door and handed its hat. Getting ever closer to the middle of the 20th century and the end of the world as we know it. Do you feel fine?
This is so perfect...he really captures the anxiety of this poem. LOVEIT
This bloke has lived and noted in poetry the truth that people live...and it is a thing of beauty.
Studied this at school when I was 15... 40 years later am hearing it again. Brings back a lot of memories....
Same with me, though 50 years ago in the West of Ireland. As I weaken and decay, this Masterpiece survives.. nay...Thrives.
The inconsequential nature of human pursuits and life. Couldn't have been explained better. Our words can stand nowhere close to explaining what Sir Eliot put forth so beautifully in words.
Perhaps one could argue that Hopkins' rather fast speed in reading is reflective of the very theme of time itself within the poem. Time passes by quickly and without mercy. You can't take a time out or ask for temporary respite from time like Prufrock tries. Before you know it, much like Prufrock, you find that everything has ended before you even knew it. So in a way, Anthony Hopkins' delivery may have been quite purposeful in drawing greater emphasis to the irony of Prufrock's claims that "there will be time" when really, in his heart he knows that that's just an excuse. Any way, that's how I look at it personally.
maybe it was purposeful, but I did not like it at all. I felt he murdered this poem. It did get bet further on, when he slowed down.
agreed.
I can't agree with u more
I can't disagree with all of you more!
Damn it felt like u pinned it
I first heard this poem from my 7th grade English teacher. The first time he did attendance for the class when he got to my name he started reciting the poem, I was completely confused until he explained the poem to me and since then I have loved it. It really makes me wonder if J Alfred Prufrock was a real person and if there could somehow be a relation if he was.
He seems to say, "I get no respect," "Where is the sacred," "Where is a euphoric moment?" "I fear my mortality." "I make no connections with people." "I am Mediocre, I must live with it."
I love this comment. Thank you :)
yes, well put
And he realizes how truly inept he is...well done, Robert!
Love the imagery - so many favourite lines.
I love Mr. Hopkins! His voice is so relaxing!
Never heard it read so quickly before but his voice is so expressive
This may be the greatest piece of literature ever written. It’s seems to follow me - haunt me.
I could think of a 100 better.
@@jimnewcombe7584 Okay. Go ahead. List 100 better. I’ll wait 🙄
@@JiMMY-my1ds Well, it wouldn't be difficult (time permitting) to list 500. To claim something as "the greatest piece of literature ever written" suggests that you've at least read all of Homer, Dante, Sophocles, Shakespeare, Milton, Blake, Euripides, Tolstoy, Chaucer, Aeschylus, etc, and for some reason I'm suspecting you haven't. Even sticking to poetry alone it would be easy.
"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" is neither a song nor about love, and seems to be written from the vantage point of a procrastinator who gets hung up on domestic banalities like "Do I dare eat a peach?" and wondering how to wear his trousers. The man clearly wears his collar tight and is vacuous. The reading of the poem here is very fine, and the poem itself is original, though I can't help disliking the speaker. He himself admits he's less than a full crab.
@@jimnewcombe7584 ahh I see what this is… you fancy yourself a bit of a literary buff and need to shit on others enjoyment of Prufrock to affirm your ‘superior’ knowledge and stroke your ego. What a joke. No doubt you sit round with ‘friends’ probably drinking wine and cheese reciting your favourite poems. Patting each other on the back.
Stop with the wank. You have no way of providing any evidence that Prufrock is any worse than anything you’ve listed. Pretentious git. I’m still waiting on you 100 ‘better’ pieces.. or is it 500 now?🙄
"I've seen the moment of my greatness flicker" is my favourite part
I want him to read me bedtime stories
Hmmm thats Hannibal Lecter ...
This poem is a shock to the system, and Hopkins’ perception is quite breathtaking !
You can feel his regret in the final lines. Wonderful reading.
TS Eliot's own belief was that once he composed his poem, it was its own living organism. It would be free to be interpreted by its readers. A poem can mean anything it wants. Although Hopkins does read it quickly, in his own way, he probably interprets it differently than others. That's how Eliot intended it to be. I believe that it's only respectful to go on that belief. :) Everyone has their own way of reading it.
I had no idea this existed! Anthony Hopkins is my favorite actor and perhaps even my favorite person, and I can't sleep at night and just randomly think, hey maybe he has ever read a book or something. This is awesome!
Do you talk of Michelangelo, Clarisse?
Ever heard of the Ninja Turtles Clarrice?
I ate his liver with some pizza, Clarice.
Have the ragged claws stopped scuttling, Clarisse?
😂😂😂😂😂
The pace is just right (for me!)
I think it's perfect; it captures the angst, desperation, and anxiety of Prufrock although I love T.S. Eliot's old, creeky voice.
His voice is awesome! Just love it...it's so smoothing...and sexy! he could read the phonebook and make it sound intersting!
He.s so right.slow it down it becomes hammy.Mr. Hopkins is so right on it.oz
Id listen to a podcast of this Guy.
i had to play @ .75x, and it made all the difference
Read beautifully in the main, but in parts to fast and yet still beautiful. Always beautiful.
I was a total flake and a stupid boy at school but my parents sent me to the best schools and sometimes in a mundane world I want to hear again the voice of my crazy old teacher so I activate the electric mist and listen to poems like this and I am comforted that out there excellence exists. I cannot remember how I once said in Latin - "She was always the fastest of ships" or in Ancient Greek "They sailed on a wine dark sea."
I have a similar story, and also took latin. This poem brings me back to when I was 15 in english class. We worked on the poem for a week. I still remember the first few lines word for word because of how many times we read it aloud in class.
This poem.... WOW!
Pushing 60 and I'm no longer bored by this poem. I love hate and am I'm living it.
I loved it at 19 and I love it at 72.
Pace is fine, he knows what he's doing. Just one of the variations I think :) I liked it
Amazing poetry
wonderfully read. Thank you Debbie.
The recitation of poetry is an art form, and there are different ways different artists go about it. It doesn't have to be commonplace and usual to be a viable way of performing said art form.
I took a test and there was a quote of this, I was curious and searched it up
Andrew--Eliot was an American poet:) He was born in St. Louis and moved to England as a young man. He goes down as both a British and an American poet.
This is a great reading! I think it is better than Eliot reading it.
I believe he speaks in a rapid verse because that would mirror the fast pace that life takes toward the inevitable conclude."My life had crawled past me till I looked up and it was over!".Our longevity is so often interrupted by death.
Ugh. "I have measured out my life with coffee spoons." I can't imagine a more elegant statement of regret.
Omg... His voice.
It is hard to read poetry well. Even excellent actors are sometimes prone to ponderous readings. I really like this one.
the inflection of the man Prufrock is captured in Mr.Hopkins delivery of the piece.It is deliberate and simple,quite like our characters recant of his own life.He feels his life is not profound in any way,so our reciter has captured the way Prufrock feels.Mr.Hopkins is no Eliot,nor does he pretend.I myself,find Eliot to be comparable to all Victorian era poets,they tend to be very loud and essential with very little inflection in the refrain.
He is channeling something. You can bet your ass he knows what he's doing. I for one enjoy this.
Eliot, like Pound and most if not all of the Modernists, was very concerned with the loss of tradition and increase of commercialism. He felt that a disconnection from tradition and feeling causes a kind of animalistic autonomy and cheapening of the human condition. This poem is probably a reflection of loneliness, death, and old age. Perhaps an idea of life without the experience of real love or a disconnection from society. The Waste Land would probably explain it better, if actually fully understood...
But it's also about a particular kind of Englishman, bred in a particular way, cultivated, yet ravaged and hollowed by privilege and no resistance or conflict, world-weary yet completely naive and parochial.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think they will sing to me.
I should have been a pair of ragged claws... My favorite line
This is amazing thankyou, I also think it's perfect!
Overall an excellent reading. Hopkins’ voice is just right and he allows the poem to be itself, ie does not dramatize excessively, as Burton does with some of his readings. I do think this poem must be read a little more slowly for optimum effect.
He’s always been a ham; and the kind of ham that gets called a Great Actor.
'ham' is the quintessential criticism of the braindead blockbuster enjoyer.
Do I dare to disturb the Universe (but you did Anthony) 😘😘
Love!
I know there are a lot of complaints about the speed at which he is reading. Study the rhythm of the poem for a minute and I believe it will make a lot more sense. In fact, try reading it aloud and you will see that the first few stanzas are akward when read slow or clipped.
"Let us go then" ... but where and why and how long shall we go there and what happens when we finish? Such a moving poem read by such a wonderful man.
Very good! Well done! Unsurprisingly :)
First published the same month and year as his marriage to a dream which became one long nightmare..
Slow it down to .75 and it sounds a lot better. People often read the longer poems too quickly.
A masterpiece
The quintessential anthem of the middle-aged man (or woman) . The most cruel act of time is to instil doubt.
I honestly thought that he was a shell shocked WW1 veteran who got gassed, and then I found out it was written before mustard gas was used
Fantastic! Prefect! I can't believe. :OOO
I dont mind the way Mr. Hopkins has read this. It most definitely is quick, and I think that is because he hasn't carefully taken the punctuation of this poem into consideration. The punctuation is intentional, and Eliot (and all good poets) used commas and semicolons to give the poem a certain pace.
I've always loved this poem, but I come to share with you all that I've realized, after a long time, that I'm not J Alfred Prufrock anymore, but prince Hamlet
thanks for posting - i really enjoyed listening
Tom (F4collector)
absolutely perfect
This is what The Mythos is all about. Wow
Superb!
This is the perfect way to read this.
thx for this
eliot was different yet ................................gr8
He began writing this when he was 22.
Thank you for posting this, gloritarendon.
Michael Meyers book "patterns" referred me to this poem. it truthfully is a strong poem and although I determine his true purpose behind this poem I can understand that he/ T.S. Elliot is pointing how life is valued in his time. To contrasting values from his youth to new developing ones.
Brilliant!
amazing!
I ate his liver with some marmalade and a nice tea.
Liver with mustard sausages with marmalde always xx
I have this on 45rpm Vinyl - I always play it on 33rpm.
Tony is perfect for stressing the... well stress with his pacing. Prufrock is consumed with social anxiety and I can feel how ridiculous the situations really are. But poems like this aren't always meant to be voiced.
He reads it like he's in a race.
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas
Me, after every human interaction ever...
Excellently, read....
On the one hand, I wish he'd start out a bit slower for this.
On the other hand, he's British and sounds awesome.
Love me some Prufrock 😍
Perfect
I enjoyed this reading but it works better if read silently to myself, I think. Seems like he's reading it to quickly.
Play it at 0.75x speed. You're welcome. ;)
not a chance
Oh I do just want the original on Radio 3.
I do not think they’ll sing to me. Absolute loneliness.
I should have been a pair of ragged claws, scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
Someone mentioned benedict cumberbatch and how he should say this .... Well matter of fact, this is one of the poets that benedict knows off by heart... That's what brought me here
THE PROCESS OF LIFE"S JOURNEY
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 5
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…. 10
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, 15
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, 20
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; 25
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; 30
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 35
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- 40
(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 45
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, 50
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- 55
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? 60
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 65
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 70
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! 75
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? 80
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, 85
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, 90
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”- 95
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, 100
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!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 105
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.”
. . . . . . . .
110
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, 115
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 … 120
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. 125
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 130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Sublime
Yes they are both from the same town, Port Talbot.