Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you people? Not even Scoplaw, who knows something about poetry, likes Eliot.
Prufrock is a masterpiece. It should depress, haunt, frighten you. Scattered couplets should stay crouched on your tongue for hours. It is impossible to say precisely what I mean!/But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen... You should feel trapped in immutable social niceties and graces, bound into a meaningless life where you rationalize away your regret as best you can and then stew in the failure of your own indecision--and how unimportant it is, measured out with coffee spoons. And would it have been worth it after all? You'll fear the loneliness, doubt the cure. Will they sing to you? Do you even deserve the song? That's Prufrock, an impotent hell, which I now have memorized.
Cheers to Courtney for her perceptive taste.
I don't know if I mentioned it before, but a few weeks ago Jay and I were at Eat First, catching the lunch special as is our custom and both of our fortune cookies said the same thing (I've kept the fortunes in my wallet):
There is a true and sincere friendship between you both.
We decided that the waiters had seen us come in often enough that they rigged our fortunes.
SCOTT: They think we're gay.
JAY: Get your arm off of me.
Today it happened again with the fortune: Friends long absent are coming back to you. I can only hope this refers to a friend of ours who about a month ago stopped coming to class and seemingly vanished off the face of the earth.
I've got like twenty minutes worth of poetry memorized at this point.