This week, we read from W. B. Yeats, T. S. Eliot, and James Joyce. I really enjoyed reading Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." It felt like I was inside the narrtor's mind, listening to his rambling thoughts as he tries to decide whether or not to abandon his monotonous ways and take a risk in order to have some fun. I like the words he uses to describe how every day is the same. "For I have known them all already, known them all:/--Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,/I have measured out my life with coffee spoons."
I was surprised to find that I also enjoyed James Joyce's "The Dead." I've had a grudge against him ever since I accidentally stumbled upon Finnigan's Wake my junior year of high school. I enjoy Modernism to a certain extent, but that novel was unreadable. "The Dead," on the other hand, though it had several Modernist qualities, still had a recognizable story line. The story brought up an interesting idea. Is it better to die young so that you will always be remembered at your peak, when you are the most passionate and full of life? Or, is it better to live into old age, slowly fading away until death?
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