Spiky words

My first hours with the spiky words of T.S. Eliot’s ‘‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’’ are fixed in a precise location: the cluttered space of my teenage bedroom floor. It’s 1982. The light is low. The parquet tiles are coming unglued. Album covers — Talking Heads, David Bowie, the Clash — fan out around me, and an array of paperbacks sprawl among a week’s discarded clothes. I begin to read: ‘‘Let us go then, you and I,/When the evening is spread out against the sky/Like a patient etherized upon a table’’ — and, with a 17-year-old’s sense of imminent upheaval, feel the stirrings of a new language in me, connected to my own language but having passed through fire. I can’t say whether the voice the poem puts in my head as it extends its opening invitation is stiffly formal, smarmy or seductive. ‘‘Spread yourself out on the floor,’’ it seems to whisper, ‘‘and prepare to be turned inside-out.’’

(…) ‘‘Prufrock’’ would become the poem that lent my adolescent self protection from the wounds of chronic alienation and gave me tart words to wield against the insipidness of the world. Eliot himself was barely out of his teens when he wrote it, uncannily in touch with the exquisite torments of hypersensitive youth, and with the peculiar burden of seeing through everything without having experienced much of anything. This was a different species of verse. It exuded cinematic urgency rather than exam-ready ‘‘messages’’ and ‘‘themes.’’ It was full of sudden rhythmic jolts and colliding tones, and could make emotional pirouettes on a vowel. Unapologetic, brash, discontinuous, ‘‘Prufrock’’ taught me the thrill of disorientation in language. No matter how often I returned, it was never tamped down by classroom-style explanations. It grew. It seemed to understand me more than I understood it. / Mark Levine, New York Times Magazine 9.8.