Caution: Pretentious terrain ahead

For whatever reason, I woke up this morning thinking about a couple of passages from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." Most mornings I wake up with a cloyingly infectious pop song in my head (like most normal people), but today it was cloyingly esoteric modern poetry.

It'd be nice if I could carry around my own little T. S. Eliot in my pocket (I mean a miniature version of the poet, not his works). I could take him out whenever I wanted, whisper a few thoughts or feelings in his ear, and let him do the talking.

Here's what he'd say today:

S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

["If I thought my answer were to one who would ever return to the world, this flame should stay without another movement; but since none ever returned alive from this depth, if what I hear is true, I answer thee without fear of infamy."]

And then:

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous
Almost, at times, the Fool.

The thing I liked most about majoring in English and reading all of these great, sensitive (sometimes tormented) authors was that I always had someone to commiserate with.