Capítulo XI: La poesía es maravillosa, sobre todo cuando estás poco inspirada

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair---
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin---
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
(T.S. Eliot, "The love song of Alfred J. Prufrock")

Ah, Thomas Stearns, fuiste un tremendo snob, probablemente misógino y, dicen, antisemita, y tus afirmaciones sobre la alta cultura me ponen los pelos de punta.

Pero tu poesía casi me da ganas de pasarlo por alto.

Además, si el fanfiction fuera una cosa seria, tú serías uno de los precedesores. Si "La divina comedia" fuera una ópera rock, este poema sería un songfic, y "The hollow men" es, sin lugar a dudas, un drabble de "El corazón de las tinieblas". ¿O no?