The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised 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

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I cannot believe I have never read T.S. Eliot.

I blame his distinctly un-sexy name. You might pursue a Woolf or indulge a Wilde, or even be singed by a Heller, but T.S. Eliot just makes you think of bankers. Unless it makes you think of T.S. Eliot

Do yourself a favour and read that excerpt aloud in your most mournful, poem-y voice to find out what I’m blathering on about. And then go buy an anthology