One of modernism's Greats reads his famous and arguably best poem "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."
I was surprised by his voice and reading style, somehow. I don't know what I was expecting: not this.
I'm not the hugest Eliot fan. I worship this poem and this poem alone, and have read "The Waste Land" and couple times, a book of his selected poems, and a couple of his literary essays. He's kind of a dogmatist when it comes to criticism, insisting that great works of literature can only be born from extensive study and alignment with the literary tradition preceding it -- i.e, dead white dudes. Overall, I didn't find his arguments particularly compelling on this issue.
Still, this poem sends me reeling even after the hundredth read, and it's different hearing the words from Eliot himself.
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