Are you still quibbling about the two percent difference in our DNA?

I read 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock' again yesterday. I am still trying to work out how I ever got into TS Eliot. It wasn't Cats though Cats is certainly worthy of any praise which might have been diverted towards Prufrock or The Wasteland. Eliot always strikes me as a very technical poet, a literary draughtsman rather than a great artist. The emotions which are present are always negative ones, often of deep despair and worry about not having done enough in one's life. Eliot for the head, Plath for the heart (and everywhere else), though Sylvia Plath seemed to have the same internal engine of destruction which was only quieted by achievements though they both also seemed not to recognise how brilliant they actually were. Most of us are relatively happy with what we manage to do with out lives (though sometimes there is an overwhelming urge to do something which your father never quite managed).