Sunday, January 16, 2011

Prufrock distilled to its finest parts. I love T.S. Eliot

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.

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.

And indeed there will be time to wonder, "Do I dare?'' and, "Do I dare?''
Do I dare disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

I should have been a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

Should I have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

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.

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 toward some overwhelming question? It is impossible to say just what I mean!

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.
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.

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