The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock


I am an awkward man. I have struggled with myself for some time trying to decide whether to write you this mail or tell you in person. I have not been much of a conversationalist, however, so I decided to write this mail.

Forgive the folly of a man who doesn’t talk much about himself when he finally talks about himself, for this mail is going to be long.

I am aware of the impression I have made on you and those around you in general. My apparently apathetic and indifferent disposition, however, comes from my own innate paranoia of rejection, the fear of not getting talked back to, the fear of not getting a smile back. It’s not an air I intend to put on, it’s just how I come across after my over-active imagination compensates for my lack of confidence.

You were one of the few to smile at me first in spite of what has been described as my unfriendly appearance (it happened early in college, you probably don’t even remember). I wasn’t in love with you back then, but still you made a deep impression; very few people ever smiled at me without having known me for some time first. It was a nice gesture from you, one that had made me immensely happy, because I didn’t consider you as a friend back then. It’s just a silly irrelevant detail, but this is probably my only chance to tell you what a big difference it made.

Inartistry in the name sensibility would be no fit tribute for you, and though much less I must say than what I mean, much more I must mean than what I say, for what is the man who insists on calling a spade a spade but a farmer? I am no farmer, but the want of sensibility and the risk of being mistaken for mockery with my flattery restrains me.

Bad literature, more often than not, is an expression of genuine feelings. That alone couldn’t have stopped me either, but the social cynicism fashionable in this place ties my tongue.

Besides, I don’t think I could do enough justice to what I have to say no matter how long I prepared for it or how sincerely I said it.

So I’ll simply say this – you are the prettiest angel I have seen in my entire life, and I love you. I have loved you to distraction, with all my desperation, to the point of utter misery and bitter happiness from which I never made it back. You have been the woman of my life.

I am hopelessly in love with you.

I barely know you, it is true, but it has been too long to give any name to what I feel for you other than love. Idiotic, I know, but love is such a blind fool!

I had a hope, for some time. I hoped to know you better. I hoped to spend some time with you. I don’t know if I tried enough or not, but all I could manage to do was sweating profusely in front of you while nervously waiting for others to finish their conversation. To my relief, you have always smiled at me, and at times I have felt that that is more than I could ever take before being overwhelmed and melting at your feet. You have no idea how much your smiles have meant to me.

Time has run out, I guess, but not before I finally told you of what I felt, and I am glad for that. I have probably made a colossal fool out of myself!

My only excuse for writing this letter is my faith in the epigram that women forgive adoration. Please don’t be offended, all I am offering you is my admiration, and I am not asking you anything in return. I have been thoroughly miserable all these years being in love with you, and I assume I couldn’t ask for any more happiness than that given our

Please don’t get mad at me. And anyway I won’t have the courage to come before you after this ever again.

So goodbye, and good luck in whatever you do in life.

Truly yours,
Incorrigible Introvert


Incorrigible Introvert

I wouldn't pretend I have a worthy tale to tell, I have only the ramifications of a twisted mind to sell.
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12 Responses to The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

  1. one real man says:

    Not sure what’s going on here, but I love Eliot’s poem The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

  2. arachnid says:

    What? How? Why? Who? When? How? What? When? . . . .

  3. @one real man
    Well, this is The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock in prose. In spirit at least.

    I have been asking the same questions to myself!

  4. arnstein says:

    For a moment there I thought you were talking about A(gni)d (who else could you meet in college and fall in love with).. then you mentioned woman somewhere…

  5. ochod says:

    maybe he did mean a(gni)d…and only he knows what a(gni)d really is…and maybe the reality is different from our perceptions?

  6. Ok, it’s only a possibility, but may be I meant a woman after all!

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  8. Even the merest of my half-hearted actions seem to bring out dramatic results!

    A story will follow in this blog when the conclusion of this story has been brought to its end.

  9. Preyas says:

    Methinks ’tis time for the story! (in other words, I’m getting bored. Give me something interesting to read)

  10. The trouble is, almost all the stories I have with me are romantic ones (because I had digressed to my mother tongue in the meantime), and I deeply resent them.

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