The Lamentation of Cassandra Prufrock (793 hits)
Category: NoneLabels: Goodness
Rating: 1.6 on 15 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by goferforhire <goferforhire.at.yahoo.com> (View user info) at 2006-07-06 12:37:07 EDT
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This story is a response to The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S Eliot. If you haven't read it, you should- http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html . I also apologize for any potential confusion caused by the voice of the story. Be aware that the unidentified speakers are 'the women coming and going and talking of Michaelangelo. It made much more sense with the original format, which I've attached if you care enough. Enjoy.
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~Nessuno amore, nessuno Dio, nessuna Grazia, può penetrare i muri che costruiamo intorno ci. Dove la lingua fallisce, niente non può camminare avanti. (1)~
"The greatest artistic achievement, the single greatest moment of genius and clarity of vision, has absolutely, positively got to be the Sistine Chapel: Michelangelo paints with such passion!"
"But don't you think that David has more feeling? It's very sensual, in a certain way, and I think that the artist must have put a great deal of himself into the work. I think he must have been attractive."
"Well I think that anything Michelangelo painted for the Catholic Church cannot be considered a great work, because he was an absolute atheist and hedonist, wasn't he? He couldn't empathize!"
I've been trying to listen, though I have not the strength to add my voice to an argument so tedious, but it's like my ears are clogged with the thinnest tendril of fog, snaking in through the open window. I might listen better were it closed, but its so stuffy in this room, I really don't think I can... did Michelangelo paint David? I thought that was El Greco...
"Don't you know, Lorraine? Michelangelo spent months, years on the Sistine Chapel! He wasn't some Picasso cracking out mediocrities every six or so hours!"
"Mediocrities?! Well, I never! It's something else if it's a matter of taste, but to judge like that-"
I think I would rather listen to the streets. There is so much more depth to the silence of concrete, so much more patience. Endurance: that's the word for it. There is a certain quality to the stone, which endures the repeated footsteps of its uncertain denizens, tromping back and forth on its face. Are they asking me a question now (what do you think, Cassandra?)? God, don't they know what I've been through? What a hell of a battle it's been (I think that they are both good in their own right)... Alfie has yet to come by to pick up his things, and he's left so much with me: most of his coats, his good pants, his mud boots, and most of his writing equipment. How will he fare without that, I wonder?
"Come, come, Cassie, you're among friends! You can be a little more decisive than that!"
"No, no: she's got a point, Alexis - there is a point of diminishing returns in art. To compare the quality of two masterpieces is to diminish them both!"
"But certainly the distinction can be made that painting the entire roof of the Sistine Chapel, which is no small building by any means, is a much greater achievement than a very good sculpture?"
I often wonder: do we know what we are talking about, or do our mouths produce words just to watch them crash into the rocks below? A veritable waterfall of language is generated by this little group, and yet none of it approaches the heart of any matter I - Cassie, do you think ambiguity is necessary in art? - can image. Words seem so useless when wielded like kitchen knives, cutting up meaningless - I suppose that it has its stylistic benefits - pieces of intelligence that we haven't the ability to digest without so much chopping and broiling. Language has only one purpose in life.
"But is it necessary? Like love? Grace? Joi de vivre?"
"I think not: I think it lowers the quality of a work."
"Anyone for a little tea?"
"I'd love some"
"I couldn't impose on you for a little bit of bread and jam?"
"I shall start toasting it now."
Not once does anyone think to ask the pressing question; (Cassie, are you all right?) not once even! I have seen him standing outside the window. (Cassie?) He scuttles back and forth along the fog-covered streets like some kind of crab... God... he must have been wearing those pants since (Cassie?) the words turned to ash (never mind) on the tip of my tongue. It tasted like saltwater.
"Would you like some toast, Cassie?"
No, thanks, I'm fine. I'll just be sitting in my chair by the barely cracked window with the fog seeping through and slinking along the floor like some kind of a pervert trying to glance up my skirts. I'll just ignore the nattering, like little pixies buzzing about the newest leprechaun in town. Such a stud, the way he wears his three-days-dirty white trousers rolled up. It makes him look old, like some kind of ancient lobster, the aging king of his piece of sea. But they should know he will never deign to speak to them. He's much to busy watching the mermaids as they glide back and forth... such a pervert, the lobster.
"How are you holding up, Cassie?"
"Just fine, thank you."
"It's been three days since he left, hasn't it?"
"Yes"
"Must be very hard on you"
"Yes"
Who was that, just now? Chittering and chattering like some kind of pixie (sure I can't tempt you?) "No thanks, Jane" Christ, I think I am dying... I never thought I would feel like this. He is watching to see if I am thinking of him. He would like his writing things back, I shouldn't wonder. He's worthless without them, poet without pen, orator without voice, without rhetoric, without, without what, I wonder? He'll never get them back, not that I wouldn't give them back.
"It was such a normal day when it happened"
I did not say that, I think. No one turned to look at me, and I think that the words were tricks of my imagination.
I still feel his hands trailing down the length of my arm, so pale, (I despise the sun you know) so pale, so pale. His fingers clutched my russet hair, slipping it from pinky to ring. The bracelet he gave me for our twelfth glittered so brightly. I would have liked to have had children.
"Do you suppose there is a life after this one?"
No. We cannot think like this. This is an echo in my head, a reminder of when he was a philosopher. He said to me (I said: do you suppose we have all died before?) he said that (I have died and come back many a time - J. Lazarus Prufrock, they used to call me) every moment he spent looking at me reminded him of (the impermeability of the universe) the fact that grace existed. And what did I say (That is not what I meant at all)? I said nothing. The words could not cut through the meat of the matter.
"Do you suppose Michelangelo would have been a good lover?"
"I don't suppose he's capable of love"
I don't suppose he's capable of love (there's an echo around here somewhere and I will find it), truly. Much too timid. It would be like a rabbit trying to love a woman. Zeus was so much better suited as a swan. Every man has his animal, and Alfie always said he was a crab, and a crab cannot love anyone, because as soon as it senses danger (and words are so dangerous) it will dart back into its hole, it will dart back into its shell and it will not be anything more than a pair of ragged claws, scuttling across the floor of a silent sea. There is so much more meaning in the silence of a grain of sand, the knowing glimmer of a silver pearl. Much better than the inane blithering of a quintet of mermaids chattering about (it's okay, Cassie, we told you not to marry him but its okay now, because we told you to leave him when he started balding, but its okay now, because he is not a hero, he is a mediocrity, Cassie, and you are too, but it's okay because we still love you, so long as you participate in our inane blithering just a little bit more)
I said very clearly, "Have you ever wanted to say something to someone so badly that you just thought the words over and over and over in your head until they twisted into a thousand pins and needles digging into your tongue like fleas, and you can't speak with a tongue covered in fleas, because the swelling, the nervous itching and swelling of the thing is almost unbearable; I was thinking that Alfred will want his writing things back, but the two of us can't even move his writing desk, and without a pen to write his script out he's not got the words to ask me, and I haven't the words or the strength to give it to him, though I wish I did, because the very fact that I must bear his physical baggage on my shoulders like I've carried his emotional baggage, all his insecurities and neuroticisms, is just enough to drive me insane."
That's so much better. Silence is so much better. No more words echoing up and down the corridor (are those footsteps?) like silent soldiers patrolling the kinder, gentler world of thought. Alfie has always been a pacifist. I think that's him coming up the stairs right now. I can tell, because I can hear the steps stop, and then fade as though they headed away, and then stop, and increase in volume as though they came closer. So indecisive (that is not what I meant at all) so incapable (that is not it at all) so... blinded by the perception of impotence, because the net of language has the consistency of fog, and (those caught in it can always escape if they remember what got them there) he's lost his way, I shouldn't wonder. I hope he hasn't started drinking. He always preferred tea, rather than alcohol, and I shouldn't be surprised if he had just come for tea, yes, that would be lovely. I can hear him muttering. I think he is debating with himself. I think that he will lose, because you always lose when you do that, don't you. Yes.
"Do I dare, do I dare?"
But that was me! That was my body prone, backed against the wall, pinned in place by the stunned and accusatory stares of these compassionless... these meaningless words are dashing through my mind like sleigh dogs released by a magnanimous Eskimo.
Those were my words, and my thoughts, and my body that raised itself to pace, as though I had a decision to make, as though I didn't hold all of the cards, as if it were a game?
"What shall I say?"
Tell me you love me, you fool... No - I think I said that aloud. The expressions of fear and incomprehension have mutated into that pristine phenomenon of condescension that only comes with a misguided perception of understanding.
"Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets and watched the smoke that rises from the pipes of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?"
God... you unromantic fool.
"I think that Michelangelo was a once in a lifetime individual, that his genius is undeniable, that his passion is beyond compare. I think that we have denigrated his memory by comparing him to any sort of concept we can wrap our weak little heads around, and I think we ought to be ashamed."
But that is not what I meant. That is not it at all.
1. Translated: No love, no God, no Grace, can penetrate the walls we build around ourselves. Where language fails, nothing can step forth.
jallshorts.doc (35 kB) [application/msword]
User Reviews
Submitted by Maltese (user info) at 2006-09-05 13:26:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm +2ing all your posts as a sign of good faith. I just want to show that there is no animosity between us. Friends?
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2006-08-22 19:18:42 EDT (#)
Ranking: -1
that explains it then.
i was pretentious then.
now I am just a washed up wreck.
keep on truckin' dude the talent is there for sure.
Submitted by goferforhire (user info) at 2006-08-22 00:28:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
18
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2006-08-22 00:17:27 EDT (#)
Ranking: -1
pretentious bunk.
How old are you?
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2006-08-20 23:17:35 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
i'll read this on the plane tomorrow.
provisional +2
Submitted by awesome_face (user info) at 2006-08-20 22:35:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Sorry dude. I gave up after the first paragraph. Im too drunk.
Submitted by ilikesteak (user info) at 2006-08-20 22:32:14 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I liked this. Not enough to heatwhore it, but still enough for a +2.
Submitted by goferforhire (user info) at 2006-07-23 23:20:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
this is better than that other post I wrote that got better reviews in greater proportion
Submitted by marginwalker (user info) at 2006-07-06 18:25:27 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
"I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas."
That poem is divine.
Submitted by DrSeussman (user info) at 2006-07-06 17:07:05 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Oops got ahead of myself!! lol
Submitted by DrSeussman (user info) at 2006-07-06 17:06:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
+freakin2!
Submitted by Tracer0351 (user info) at 2006-07-06 17:05:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
A little Hard to follow in the first reading, but splendid. Actually makes you think.
Submitted by Coleslaw_Murphy (user info) at 2006-07-06 14:35:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
A bit confusing, even in the attached version (though less so).
But splendid. Simply splendid.
Submitted by inion_de_trua (user info) at 2006-07-06 13:20:09 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
agreed.
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2006-07-06 13:08:52 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
*jaw drops*
Amazing.