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 percioche 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 towards 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!
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.
"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" was first published by British poet T. S. Eliot in 1915; Eliot later included it as the title poem in his landmark 1917 collection Prufrock and Other Observations. The poem is a dramatic monologue whose brooding speaker relays the anxieties and preoccupations of his inner life, as well as his romantic hesitations and regrets. It is considered one of the defining works of modernism, a literary movement that saw writers experimenting with form and digging into the alienation, isolation, and confusion of life at the turn of the 20th
Summary
"If I thought that my reply would be to someone who would ever return to earth, this flame would remain without further movement; but as no one has ever returned alive from this gulf, if what I hear is true, I can answer you with no fear of infamy."
Let's go then, you and I, when the night sky is spread out like a patient anesthetized on an operating table. Let's walk down half-empty streets, which are marked by sleepless, cheap hotels where people only stay one night, and by shabby, run-down restaurants. The streets follow each other like a boring argument with malicious intentions. They make you think of some urgent question... but don't ask what it is. Let's go and make our visit.
Women enter and exit the room while talking about Michelangelo.
Yellow smoke rubs its back against the windows; it rubs its snout all over the windows, licks the corners of the night with its tongue, lingers above the stagnant water in the drains, mingles with soot from the chimneys, slips by the patio, and suddenly jumps—but seeing that it's a cool autumn night, curls around the house and fades away.
Yes, there will be time to look at the yellow smoke that slides along the street, rubbing itself against the windows. There will be time, there will be time to prepare to meet people; to murder and create; for work and answering questions; time for both of us. And there will be time, still, for a hundred indecisions, to change my mind a hundred times, all before afternoon tea.
Women enter and exit the room while talking about Michelangelo.
Yes, there will be time to ask, “Do I dare?” And again, “Do I dare?” Time to turn around and go back downstairs, worried about the bald spot on the back of my head. (People will say: "His hair is really getting thin!") I'm wearing my morning coat, with my collar buttoned all the way up to my chin, along with an expensive but not overly showy necktie with a simple tie clip. (People will say: "His arms and legs are so skinny!") Do I have it in me, or am I brave enough, to change the world? A single minute contains enough time to make decisions and changes, although I'll just change my mind again a minute later.
That's because I have done it all already. I've seen it all: I've experienced evenings, mornings, and afternoons, and I could measure out my life by the number of coffee spoons I've used. I've already heard the voices singing in the other room. So what gives me the right?
And I already know how people look at me. I've seen all the looks people give—the way people look at me and dismiss me with some clichéd phrase, fixing me in their gaze like I'm an insect specimen pinned and wriggling against the wall. So how should I start to spit out the memories of my life, like the butt-ends of a cigarette? And what gives me the right?
And I already know what women are like. I've known all kinds of women—those whose arms are covered with bracelets and have pale, hairless skin (although in the lamplight I can see that their arms are covered in light brown hair). Is it the smell of perfume from a dress that's making me lose my train of thought? I'm thinking of arms resting on a table, or wrapped up with a shawl. So what gives me the right? And how should I begin?
Should I say: I've walked in the evening through narrow streets and watched lonely men leaning out of windows and smoking in their undershirts?
I should have been a creature with worn-out claws, scurrying across the floors of the silent ocean.
And as it gets later in the day, the night itself seems to sleep so peacefully! It's as if it's been stroked to sleep by long fingers. It's either asleep or tired—or maybe it's just pretending to be asleep, stretched out on the floor beside us. Should I, after afternoon tea, have enough strength left to disturb this moment and cause drama? I cry, refuse to eat, and pray—and like John the Baptist, I've seen my (now slightly bald) head brought in on a plate. But even so, I'm no holy messenger, and I don't have anything very important to say. There was a time when I could have been great, but that moment has passed for good; I've seen death's butler hold my coat, but he just laughed at me. And to put it bluntly, I was scared.
And would it have been worth it anyway? After all the afternoon tea, as we were sitting among the porcelain teacups and talking idly, would it have been worth it to force a smile and bring up the problem I'm thinking about? To have smooshed and simplified this huge, all-encompassing problem into a manageable bit, like a ball, and then have rolled it towards some question that's so big it's hard to articulate or understand? To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, come back to tell you everything, I'll tell you everything”? If someone, fluffing up her pillow, should say: “That is not what I meant at all; That is not what I meant, at all.”
And would it have been worth it anyway? Would it have been worth it, after everything I've seen in life: the sunsets and the dooryards and the streets sprinkled with rain? Would it have been worth it after the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that graze the floor—and all of this, and so much more? I can't say what I want to! But if a magic lantern could take my nervous thoughts and put them in patterns on a screen that became words: Would it have been worth it—while fussing with a pillow or taking off a shawl, and turning towards the window—to say: “That is not it at all; That is not what I meant, at all.”
No! I'm not Prince Hamlet, and I was never meant to be. I'm just a background character, a lord following the prince who can serve to fill a crowd, begin a scene or two, or give the prince advice. No doubt I'm an easy tool, subservient and happy to be useful. I'm polite, cautious, and careful; full of lots to say, but what I say is obscure and unclear. Sometimes I'm ridiculous—sometimes I'm even almost like a clown.
I'm getting old. I'm getting old. l'll start rolling up the bottoms of my pants.
Should I part my hair in a different place? Can I be bold enough to eat a peach? I'll wear white flannel pants, and walk on the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing to each other.
I don't think those mermaids will sing to me.
I have seen the mermaids riding towards the sea on the waves, the wind whipping up the waves' foam and making the water look like a swirl of black and white. We've been waiting in the rooms underneath the sea, next to mermaids wrapped in red and brown seaweed—waiting for human voices to wake us up, and then we'll drown.
Themes
Anxiety, Indecision, and Inaction
The speaker in “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” is paralyzed by indecision. The poem’s momentum is continuously frustrated by digressions—the speaker's thoughts trailing off in seemingly unrelated directions—and by the speaker’s sense of his own inadequacy. By depicting the speaker’s intense struggle with indecision, the poem suggests that excessive preoccupation with doing the right thing—whether when expressing yourself, forming relationships with others, or simply deciding how to style your hair or what to eat—can actually stop a person from ever venturing forth into the world or, in fact, doing much of anything at all.
From the beginning, the poem sets up a juxtaposition between action and inaction. The first line states “let us go,” implying that the poem will move forward in time and space—in other words, that it will go somewhere. But that momentum is quickly stalled. These streets “follow like a tedious argument of insidious intent,” suggesting that the various paths they offer up feel both boring and threatening—that there is no clearly good path to take. And though the speaker says that the streets “lead you to an overwhelming question,” the speaker doesn't actually pose that question. Instead, he explicitly says not to inquire further: “Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’” Maybe the question is just which direction is best to walk in or, indeed, where they're going in the first place—simple queries that become hurdles in the speaker's mind.
In any case, the speaker’s habitual procrastination seems to be rooted in social anxiety, since, paralyzed with fear about making the wrong choice, he appears to find even basic decisions about what to eat or how to dress overwhelming. In fact, the speaker admits that he finds time for “a hundred indecisions, / And for a hundred visions and revisions,” all before sitting down his afternoon tea! He imagines “descending the stair” and greeting people, but in reality he is too timid to do so because he imagines that people will laugh at his bald spot and shabby clothing (which, in turn, suggest that the speaker is getting older—and that he has been wasting his time with all this indecision).
What’s more, it’s not just that the speaker can’t follow through on his planned actions. He doesn’t even seem to know how to begin to ask “the overwhelming question.” Instead he asks “how should I begin?” and “how should I presume?”—suggesting that he feels incapable of overcoming the first hurdle to taking action. He repeats those phrases at the end of two different stanzas, giving the impression of a stuttering or repeated failed start.
For the speaker, trying to make the best choice repeatedly results in no choice at all. He is also paralyzed by a feeling of his own inadequacy, as implied by his reluctance to “presume” and his repetition of the phrase “Do I dare?” He doesn’t take action, in other words, because he doesn’t feel that he has the right to do so. Overcoming indecision requires agency, but the speaker remains trapped in his repeating patterns because he feels that he can’t “dare” to do anything.
There are times when the speaker does seem close to doing something, but the poem ultimately indicates that wanting to act isn’t enough. Taking meaningful action, it suggests, requires that an individual “dare” to make a choice without being certain that it’s the best choice—a risk that the speaker can’t bring himself to take. And while the speaker thinks he'll have plenty of time to do things, this seems like wishful thinking. Given his propensity to waffle about every little decision, he'll likely continue to agonize over his choices until there's no time left—his indecision having stopped him from living a full life.
Desire, Communication, and Disappointment
Although the speaker in “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” might appear silent and affectless to others, his interior life is alive with hope and desire. In particular, he appears to have a deep longing for romantic connection—but he struggles to communicate that desire, and so it remains mostly unfulfilled. Indeed, despite being a “love song,” the poem never quite manages to discuss love itself; instead, it stays bogged down in the false starts and half-finished thoughts that characterize the speaker’s attempts at connecting with other people. The poem makes it clear that people like the speaker can only really experience love by breaking through these communication barriers, but it also embodies just how difficult doing so can be.
There are a few key moments in the poem that suggest the speaker feels romantic or sexual desire for women, but is unable to express those feelings. For example, he asks at one point if it is “perfume from a dress” that distracts him, and he is preoccupied with the image of a woman’s “arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl”—a fixation that seems erotic. However, his desires are soon stymied by self-doubt and recrimination. He asks himself: "And should I then presume? And how should I begin?” These repeated questions show that he doesn’t know how to begin a conversation with a woman and thinks that it would somehow be presumptuous to do so.
The speaker’s sense of thwarted communication is so strong that it even colors his fantasies. When the speaker imagines expressing his desires and feelings to others, those scenes inevitably dissolve into disheartening moments of misunderstanding. For instance, the speaker imagines posing what he calls “the overwhelming question,” saying “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, / Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all.” However, although the speaker compares himself to the Biblical figure and offers the promise of total revelation—“to tell all”—he doesn’t actually manage to communicate much of anything. Instead, he imagines his listener falling asleep and needing “a pillow by her head.” Even in his fantasies, then, he experiences the disappointment of being unable to communicate, protesting: “That is not what I meant at all; That is not it, at all.”
The speaker’s attempts at communication only grow less effective as he is overcome by hopelessness and disappointment. By the end of the poem, the speaker’s disappointment seems to have hardened to the point that it has become entrenched within him; he doesn’t seem to expect that his desires will ever be fulfilled. He describes the singing of mermaids in exquisite detail, but admits: “I do not think that they will sing to me.” Instead, he remarks that he “[grows] old.” Because the speaker’s efforts at communication have been unsuccessful, he gives up on trying, instead imagining that his opportunity to share his hopes and dreams has already passed.
The speaker’s exclamation partway through the poem that “it is impossible to say just what [he] mean[s]” underscores exactly how interconnected desire, communication, and disappointment are for the speaker. His frustration suggests that romantic fulfillment requires clear communication—something the poem indicates the speaker might not be capable of.
Modernity and Alienation
“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” is often regarded as one of the quintessential “modernist” poems, reflecting the social and intellectual conditions of the early 20th century. The poem emphasizes exciting features of modern life—like electricity and new medical technologies—but it also suggests that modernity comes with a persistent sense of alienation and isolation from others. Through the example of the speaker, the poem indicates that the modern condition essentially results in feeling alienated from the world.
The poem refers to several technologies that would have been relatively new in the early 20th century, like lamplight, industrial factories, and anesthesia in hospitals. At the same time, all this new activity and industry seems to have left the speaker behind. He describes how the “yellow fog” slithers through the streets like a cat that “rubs its back upon the window-panes,” but he rarely interacts with actual people, as the streets are “half-deserted.” The smog seems more alive to him than the people themselves.
The speaker already seems weary of this new world, in which events follow one another in a repetitive, cyclical fashion. He claims: “I have known them all already, known them all; / Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, / I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.” He suggests that nothing can surprise him anymore or disturb the normal rituals of polite society. For the speaker, taking action would mean “to force the moment to its crisis,” which seems an impossible task after the civilized, sedate activity of taking “tea and cake and ices.” There is thus something emotionally deadening and alienating about the seemingly empty social rituals that characterize the modern world.
Modernist literature was also often characterized by rejection of traditional figures of authority. In keeping with this tradition, the poem deconstructs the traditionally respected pillars of Western culture, religion, and literature, leaving the speaker feeling isolated and pessimistic about his diminished connection to those traditions. For example, the speaker comments ironically that he is “no prophet,” like John the Baptist, and that rather “the eternal Footman hold[s] my coat, and snicker[s]” (basically, death laughs at him).
The poem thus makes its protagonist an object of mockery rather than a figure of greatness. The speaker himself seems to feel an inability to measure up against these literary greats, as when he proclaims that “I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be,” and is simply a nameless, subservient “attendant lord ” or even “a Fool.” He doesn’t draw strength or inspiration from these would-be authority figures of literature and culture; instead, they leave him feeling isolated and disheartened. This reaction suggests that modernist trends in literature may only enhance the alienating experience of living in the modern world.
“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” suggests that, for all the wealth and technological comforts of modern life, there is something profoundly alienating about this new way of experiencing the world. The speaker feels unable to participate in the social life of the world around him or to relate to the literary context that has come before him. Modernity doesn’t connect him more with others; it just leaves him feeling even more alone.
J. 알프레드 프루프록의 연가
만일 세상으로 돌아갈 수 있는
사람에게 내가 대답하는 것이라면
더 이상 말할 수 없다.
그러나 내가 들은 말이 사실이라면,
이 지옥에서 살아 돌아간 자 없다.
그러니 당신에게 치욕스럽지만 말한다.
(단테, <지옥 편> 27편, 61-66)
갑시다. 당신과 나
수술대 위에 마취되어 누워있는 환자같이
저녁이 하늘에 펼쳐질 때.
갑시다. 거의 폐허가 된 거리를 통해,
싸구려 하룻밤 여인숙의 불안한 밤과
굴 껍질이있는 톱밥이 깔려있는 식당의
불만스런 뒷골목으로:
음흉한 의도를 가진
지겨운 논쟁처럼 이어지는 거리는
당신을 압도적인 문제로 인도한다.
오, 묻지 마시오, “그것이 뭔데요?”라고.
가서 방문해 봅시다.
방안에선 여인들이 왔다 갔다 하는구나
미켈란젤로를 이야기하며.
등을 유리창에 비벼대는 노란 안개,
콧잔등을 유리창에 비벼대는 노란 연기.
혀로 저녁의 구석구석을 핥고,
하수구에 고인 웅덩이에서 잠시 머뭇거리다가
굴뚝에서 떨어지는 검댕을 등에 맞고
테라스 옆을 미끄러져나가, 갑자기 뛰어 올라,
온화한 시월의 밤임을 알고는
집 주변을 휘돌고, 잠들어버렸다.
그리고 정말 시간이 오리라
유리창에 등을 비벼대며
거리를 따라 미끄러져 나가는 노란 연기를 위한.
시간이 오리라, 시간이 오리라,
당신이 만나는 얼굴들을 만나기 위해 표정을 준비해야 할 ;
살인하고 창조할 시간이 있으리라,
당신의 쟁반 위로 문제를 들었다 놓는,
일손들의 모든 일들과 날들을위한 시간은 ;
당신을 위한 시간과 나를 위한 시간은,
아직 백 번쯤 망설일 시간은.
백 번쯤 생각하고 수정할 시간은,
토스트와 차를 마시기 전에.
방안에선 여인들이 왔다 갔다 하는구나
미켈란젤로를 이야기하며.
그리고 정말 시간이 있으리라
"내가 감히?", "내가 감히?"하며 고민할,
머리 한가운데가 대머리로,
돌아서서 충계를 내려갈 시간은 --
(그들은 말할 것이다, "머리 숱이 점점 적어지네!"라고)
내 모닝코트, 턱까지 뻣뻣하게 올라간 깃,
소박한 핀으로 강조한, 화려하면서 수수한 넥타이 --
(그들은 말할 것이다, "팔다리가 참 가늘기도 하네!"라고)
내가 감히
우주를 뒤흔들 수 있을까?
곧 시간이 있을 거다.
일 분이면 역전될 결정과 수정을 위한 시간이.
나는 그들 모두를 이미 알고 있다, 그들 모두를 알기에-
저녁, 아침, 오후를 알고 있기에,
나는 커피 스푼으로 내 삶을 측정 해왔고 ;
먼 방에서 들리는 음악소리 아래
갑작스럽게 희미해지는 목소리들을 안다.
그러니 내가 어떻게 나설 수 있겠는가?
그리고 그 눈들을 이미 알고 있다, 그것들 모두를-
공식화된 말로 당신을 고정시키는 눈들을,
내가 공식화되고 핀 위에 펼치질 때,
내가 핀에 박혀 벽 위에서 꿈틀거릴 때,
나의 매일과 생활방식의 생애와 습관의
모든 부스러기들을 내버리겠는가?
그러니 내가 어떻게 나설 수 있겠는가?
그리고 나는 그 팔들을 이미 알고 있다, 그것들 모두를--
팔찌를 낀 희고 맨살인 팔들
(그러나 등불 아래에서, 연한 갈색 솜털이 드러나는)
나를 이렇게 어지럽게 하는 것은
옷에서 풍기는 향수인가?
테이블에 놓인, 혹은 숄에 덮힌 팔들인가.
그러니 내가 어떻게 나설 수 있겠는가?
그리고 어떻게 시작해야 하는가?
. . . . .
나는 황혼녘 좁은 거리를 지나
창밖으로 몸을 내밀고는 셔츠 입은 외로운 사람들의
파이프 연기를 보았노라고 말할까?...
고요한 바다 밑바닥에 황급히 기어가는
한 쌍의 야생의 집게발이었더라면.
. . . . .
그리고 그 오후, 그 저녁은 참으로 평화롭게 잠잔다!
긴 손가락들이 쓰다듬어주며,
잠들거나... 피곤하거나... 아니면 꾀병부리며,
당신과 내 곁에서, 이곳 바닥에 누워 있구나.
차와 케이크, 아이스크림을 먹고 난 후,
내가 그 순간을 위기로 몰아갈 힘이 있을까?
그러나 내가 울고 단식하고, 울고 기도했을지라도,
내가 (약간 대머리인) 내 머리가 쟁반에 놓여 들어오는 것을 보았지만,
나는 예언자가 아니다--여기 큰 문제는 없다.
나는 내 위대한 순간이 깜박거리는 것을 본다.
나는 영원한 하인이 내 외투를 붙잡고, 낄낄거리는 것을 보았고,
그래서 한 마디로, 나는 겁이 났다.
결국, 그게 가치가 있었을까,
커피, 마멀레이드, 차를 마신 후에,
자기들 사이에서, 당신과 내가 말하는 중에,
그게 가치가 있었을까,
미소지으며 그 문제를 물어뜯는 것이,
우주를 공 속으로 밀어 넣어,
어떤 압도적인 질문을 향해 던지는 것이,
'나는 나사로다, 죽음에서 돌아와, 당신들 모두에게
말하고자, 나는 당신들 모두에게 말하겠다'--라고 말하는 것이,
만일 그녀가, 머리맡에 베개를 놓으며,
"그건 내 의도가 전혀 아니예요.
정말 그게 아녜요."라고 말한다면.
결국, 그게 가치가 있었을까,
그게 가치가 있었을까,
일몰, 앞 마당, 그리고 물뿌린 거리를 지나,
소설을 읽고, 차를 마시고, 바닥에 끌리는 치마를 본 후에--
이것과, 더 많은 것들 이후에--
내가 의미하는 바를 그대로 말하기는 불가능하다!
그러나 마치 환등기가 화면 스크린 위에 신경 세포를 형대로 보여주는 것 같아.
그게 가치가 있었을까
그녀가 베개를 놓거나 숄을 던지면서,
창문쪽으로 돌아보며,
"그것은 전혀 아녜요,
그것은 내가 의도한 게 전혀 아녜요"라고 말한다면.
. . . . .
아니오! 나는 햄릿 왕자가 아니며, 그렇게 될 것도 아니오 ; .
나는 수행하는 귀족이고, 행렬을 성대히 만들고,
한두 장면을 시작하게 하고, 왕자에게 충고하는 거면
족한 사람이오. 분명, 편리한 연장이오,
공손하고, 즐겨 심부름하고,
분별있고, 쓸모있어 즐겁고,
정치적이고, 주의력 있고, 소심한,
허풍이 많지만, 좀 둔한,
때로는, 정말, 거의 우스꽝스러운--
거의, 때로는, 어릿광대.
나는 늙어간다. . . 나는 늙어간다. . .
내 바지 끝단을 접어 입게 될 것이다.
내 머리를 뒤로 가르마해 볼까? 복숭아를 먹어 볼까?
흰 플라넬 바지를 입고, 해변을 걸을 것이다.
나는 인어들이 서로에게 노래하는 것을 들었다.
나는 그들이 내게 노래하리라고 생각하지 않는다.
나는 파도를 타고 바다쪽으로 나가는 그들을 보았다.
바람이 바닷물을 희고 검은색으로 불어 일으킬 때,
파도의 흰 머리칼을 빗질하며 뒤로 넘기면서.
적갈색 해초로 화환을 두른 바다 소녀들 옆에서
우리는 바다의 방들에서 머물렀다.
인간의 목소리들이 우리를 깨울 때까지, 그리고 우리는 익사한다.
시의 머리말(서문, 제사, motto)에서 Dante의 신곡 - 지옥편을 인용했다.
극중의 Prufrock이라는 인물이 독백을 늘어놓은 형식 -> '사교계의 특정한 여인'을 향한 독백(불특정여인X)
시에서 등장하는 Prufrock은 소심하고 우유부단한 성격의 평범한 근대의 도시인
Stream od Consciousness(의식의 흐름), Dramatic Monologue(극적독백), Objective Correlative(객관적 상관물)
구어체로 된 독백형식이 가장 돋보인다. (독백 사이사이에 객관적인 서술장면이 있어 단편을 모아놓은 것 같은 느낌) / 동일한 표현을 두세번 반복하여 자연스러운 구어체의 느낌을 살리고 있다.
리듬: Iambic foot(약강조)
+) Iambic을 기본리듬으로 하고 있지만 화자의 내적독백의 갈등을 그려내기 위해 상당부분 불규칙하다.
+) Passion과 Reason의 갈등이 Rhythm을 고르지 않게 한다.
+) 반복, 긴 시행으로 느리게 전게되어 권태로움을 표현하는데 적합하다. / 때때로 변덕스럽고 신경질적인 리듬이 중간중간 끼어든다.
프랑스의 Symbolism의 영향을 받았다.
해설
1. 엘리엇의 초시 시 중 가장 유명한 서정시
2. 물질주의와 상업주의에 물든 현대문명의 공허함과 소외된 개인들을 묘사하고 있다.
3. Prufrock: 엘리엇이 직접 만든 이름 / 신중함(Prudence)을 연상시키고 예절과 체면을 중시하는 사람을 뜻함 / 이성과 감정 사이에서 조율을 못해 자신의 세계안에서 고민하는 주인공의 모습을 상징
4. 이 작품은 패배주의에 사로잡힌 이상주의자 프루프록이라는 중년 신사의 연가(love song)이다. / 그는 좌절된 욕망으로 괴로워하고 열정과 용기도 없고 아무행동도 못하고 주저하는 대머리 중년남성이다. -> 좌절된 욕망에 괴로워하는 무기력한 현대인의 모습 / 프루프록은 똑똑하고 자의식이 강하지만 허무감에 빠져있고, 목적이 없고, 자기주장을 분명히 못하는 현대인을 상징 / 그의 내적 독백을 통해 엘리엇은 종교과 공동체 의식을 상실한 현대인의 무기력한 삶을 그려냈고 그 삶은 지옥같다고 말한다. / 그는 여인에게 사랑을 고백하려 하지만 실행하지 못하고 망설인다.
5. 이 시는 관습적인 연애시가 아니다. / 모든 시도를 주저하고 망설이다 결국 포기하면서 그는 그것이 가치있는 일인지 스스로에게 되묻는다. 자신을 [햄릿]의 바보 ‘Polonius’와 비슷하다 생각한다. / 그는 결국 자신의 실체가 어릿광대와 같다는 자각에 이른다.
6. [1행]에서 you and I
- you : 본능적 충동, 즉 사교계의 여자와 충동적 사랑을 하고자 하는 자아
- I : 이상적인 진리를 고백하는 주관적인 자아
=> you and I 는 한 사람의 분열된 자아를 의미
※ T. S. 엘리엇의 이 시는 총 131행의 시이다. 전체 길이를 감안, 네 부분(서문, 1-36행 / 37-74행 / 75-110행 / 111-131행)으로 나누어, 4회에 걸쳐 게재한다.
T. S. 엘리엇의 "J. 알프레드 프루프록의 연가" (The love song of J. Alfred Prufrock)는 그가 26살 때인 1915년에 발표되었다.
에즈라 파운드의 권유에 의해 시 문학지에 실린 이 시는 당시 주류 시와 동떨어진 '특이한' (outlandish) 시로 비평가들로부터 무시되거나, 혹평을 받았다.
하지만, 현재에는 고답적인 전통 시와 19세기 낭만주의 시에서 모더니즘의 시로 옮겨가는, 문화적 패러다임(paradigm)을 바꾼 혁신적인 시로 극찬을 받고 있다.
이 시에는 많은 시와 책과 예술 작품이 인용되거나 원용되고 있다. 엘리엇이 박학하게 알고 있는 단테를 비롯하여, 성경, 셰익스피어(헨리 4세, 십이야, 햄릿), 17세기 형이상학파 시인 앤드루 마블, 프랑스 상징주의자들(말라르메, 랭보, 보들레르)의 영향을 두드러지게 볼 수 있다.
이 시는 도시에서 고독한 삶을 사는 프루프록의 내면적 심리를 '극적 독백' (dramatic monologue) 형식으로 적고 있다. 엘리엇 자신은 이 시를 '문학적 고뇌의 드라마' (drama of literary anguish)라고 하였다.
엘리엇은 시의 주인공 프루프록의 경험을 이야기하는 데 있어, 당시 주목을 받기 시작한 모더니스트 작가들의 '의식의 흐름' (stream of consciousness) 기법을 도입하고 있다.
고독하고, 사소한 일에 있어서조차 결단을 내리지 못하는 프루프록은 거대한 산업사회인 현대사회의 소외와 부조리 앞에 선, 무기력한 한 개인으로서의 현대인을 상징한다.
중년의 늙어가는 지성인인 프루프록은 그의 육체적, 지성적 무기력과, 삶에 있어서 잃어버린 기회를 한탄한다.
충족되지 않는 육체적 욕망에 번민하며, 정신적 불모, 후회, 갈망, 성적 좌절, 육체의 쇠약, 늙음, 죽어야 할 운명에 대해 쓰라린 감정을 드러내고 있다.
1차 세계대전 직전에 쓰인 이 시는, 전통사회가 붕괴되고, 급격히 변해가는 현대사회 속의, 소외되고, 좌절하고, 무기력한 현대인의 불안과 고독을 상징적으로 잘 나타내고 있다.