It is very true that the
dullest of minds are incredibly boastful. Imagine the many clicks of keyboards
at coffee shops as the “next big author” is publicly writing, just waiting for
eye contact so they can loudly explain in well thought out terms their master
piece. Seldom does anyone ever pay mind to the disjointed and shy mutterings of
intellectual, sitting in the corner, sipping on his plain black coffee. This is
due to the fact that many intellectuals suffer from such crippling self doubt
that they become just like the character of T. S. Eliot’s poem “The Love Song
of J. Alfred Prufrock.”
Intelligence is a hell few
will ever know, as shown in the opening of this poem. Just under the title, a
small snippet of Dante’s Inferno can be read. The lines, in the original
Italian, are meant to express that someone can tell their story and it never be
passed along, as if the story being told is not worth it. The poem then begins
with Alfred telling of many surreal cityscapes, all of which are seedy yet
real. The people that are there are of a different intellect; they are street
smart and sure of themselves. These are the places he wishes to go but also the
things he wishes to be, only to be interrupted by what his reality is, which is
the beauty he can not obtain is. This is shown through the women passing by in
small parlor rooms making small talk of Michelangelo. He continues on in a
disjointed pattern of making excuses for not changing as he is too old, too
ugly, and counting on time always being there. He ends with beating himself
down as a nothing and simply drifts away in silence.
Many with the most brilliant
minds are too fearful to speak up. They are crushed by their own insecurities
and left to their own hells. Instead, they waste away and watch women gather in
tiny rooms talking of Michelangelo or boastful hipsters talk about how they are
the next great playwright in their local coffee shop.
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