Friday, April 11, 2025
Time: 3:08 PM
Song: I Knew Prufrock Before He Got Famous
Artist: Frank Turner
Mode of Consumption: Listening to Spotify.
Link to song: https://open.spotify.com/track/1ZdqkFeP6fTzwJG9nfSvTd?si=b801defcd42b4d51
My freshman year at NIU I took a literature course. It wasn’t
a General Education course, as I had tested out of having to take those in
English. It was like a half step above those. I wanted to take an English course
as I was trying to decide if that would be my major. Frankly, I look back at
that time in life and realize now just how haphazardly I made decisions.
The course was taught by Professor Wiliam Baker, an elderly
man who I believe was from Scotland. He was fiery. He was gruff. He seemed
enamored with challenging this course comprised of bleary-eyed freshmen. I am
pretty sure it was an 8 AM class.
One of the pieces we studied was “The Love Song of J. Alfred
Prufrock,” by T.S. Eliot. I remember being intimidated because I don’t frankly
remember studying much poetry in high school. I suspect like grammar; poetry was
starting to get phased out of the average curriculum. Both grammar and poetry are
difficult subjects for most students, making the day tougher on both teacher
and student, and those looking at the big picture feel like they are things
that most students don’t really need either much in the modern world.
It’s unfortunate but true. I grew up in the era where math
and science were preached to any student considering college. I remember
classmates doubling up on math courses so that they would get the requisite
calculus taken during their senior year. I wonder how beneficial that turned
out for most of them.
It’s a shame, because poetry and grammar also require a
deeper level of thinking and reasoning. Just the sort of things that seem lacking
when I look around the world.
Anyways, as far as poetry goes, I felt defeated. I hadn’t
much clue what these were poets were getting at.
Still, there was something about Prufrock and Eliot. I didn’t
understand it, but it felt different than Shakespeare’s sonnets, or even Milton’s
epic poetry that I’d encounter later in my college career. Prufrock is a puzzle
with opening lines I remember to this day:
“Let us go then, you and I
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;”
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