Review: (1) Ange Mlinko on an Eliot Centenary
I find it disturbing to go back to T.S. Eliot after all these years. I can recall the hairs on my neck rising on first reading “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” on the sad sunken couch in my parents’ damp basement living room, that summer of 1985. Yet what had I to do with the persona of a hand-wringing, prematurely aged, pseudo-British male narrato…
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