Irony rules the world of J. Alfred Prufrock, as he remains “etherized upon a table” of his own making (line 3). Stymied by
his own dispositions he his trapped between fantasy and reality. His mind pursues the advent of love, of happiness and acceptance, but he is left balding and listlessly encouraging the mundane. Hope has left this hapless old man and only contentment remains. He is content with life, with the immobility of his actions and feelings. He has given up. Afloat in a sea of beauty and extravagance he begins to drown. Criticized by “eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase” he slowly submerges, without struggle or pain, like falling into a dream only to wake up in a nightmare (line 56). Constantly judged by a jury of his peers, Prufrock knows the eyes, the arms, he knows them all and they are what tug at his feet, what push him into that
intellectual isolation (line 55). The brooding intellectual is not appreciated or accepted, he is
ridiculed and belittled. Why? Why is this man, the man of reason and thought, the progenitor of advancement and enlightenment ridiculed? And why has Eliot given him this platform, this immortal place in history? Prufrock is real. He is no Hamlet. He is no prince by any means, but in his youth the worlds of reality and fantasy existed in unison, giving him reason to dream, to picture himself in glory. The luster of his youth, that moment when his “greatness flickered” sent him tumbling into this world of despair (line 84). He returns, sporadically, to see the world around him in extreme disrepair. This man was once a dreamer, a romantic of sorts. Outside influences have murdered that dream; have turned this “artist” into an insecure and immobile man.