The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Image courtesy of: www.weheartit.com.

I've been mulling over T.S. Eliot's 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' lately. Every time I read the poem, I am struck by Eliot's clothing imagery - symbolic not only of the strictures of Edwardian society but also those shackles of self-doubt. The style set of the age, with their rigours and sartorial codes - 'my collar mounting firmly to the chin' - have in essence occluded him from any chance of fitting in, being understood - 'smoothed by long fingers' - intimacy as it were:

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!")

Despite following the edicts of fashion, his bald spot and lanky demeanour let him down. It's as if he's been through this all before and yet, out of loneliness, repeats the humiliation; still unsure of how to break the hermetic seal:

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?

Desperate not to be one of the 'lonely men in shirt sleeves, hanging out windows', he can't escape the reality that life is passing him by; and this glossy existence of 'porcelain cups' is parallel to his own shadowy life - one where he plays 'the Fool':

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

As his sense of mortality deepens, his willigness to take risks begins to ebb.  He realises old age has no place in stylish society. Instead he accepts regretfully that the mermaids (who ironically serenade sailors to their death) will never sing to him:

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.

O.K. Not exactly the most cheerful missive on my part but it does ring true on many levels I believe. Something to think about...