#by: prufrock's love

[fine-nephrit]

🥏 TXF Fic Rec #7: 'Agunah' by Prufrock’s Love

Prufrock’s Love is known for her long, angsty historical AUs, but today’s fic is one of her shorter ones, a mid-length story set in Season 7/8 told from a psychotic stalker’s POV.

The third-party POV is refreshing and well-rendered. The established MSR is a treat, full-on smitten, satisfyingly in character, and believable in their “happy ever after with a baby” world, but not cloying, thanks to the distance put between them and us readers by the narration of a voyeur.

Although with PFL, there’s always a dash of angst mixed in with the fluff, just the perfect blend for this story.

🥏 Agunah by Prufrock’s Love (gossamer link)

Length: short, 69K / 12,000+ words (two parts combined) Season: season 7 Relationship(s): MSR established relationship Tags: baby fic, angst, fluff, third-party POV Rating: Teen/PG-13

[lilydalexf]

👽 Random X-Files Fic Rec

There is a very captivating story about what could have happened had Mulder, Scully, and William all stayed separated. Except of course none of them can stay separated, not really. This story is captivating but also at times very tense and upsetting because it’s written so well with such humor and such care to every detail and character. It’s always worth a read (or re-read). Title: Dr. Scully's School for Exceptional Boys Author: Prufrock's Love Summary: More than a decade had passed. Mulder had no reason to hole up in his apartment alone, wearing a Three Dog Night T-shirt with dried mustard on the hem and blue jeans that had seen better days. He wasn't "saving himself" for anyone. Especially not Her. Though she remained epically, beautifully, brilliantly kick-A-S-S. Length: 71,467 words Classification: Novel, MSR, Other Rating: R Spoilers: Veers AU after season 7, with a few bits from 8 & 9. Favorite line: As if I'd pick only one. Read the story!

[hungryslothwrites]

What emotion do you create from? by traumacure / Why is millenial humor so weird? by Elizabeth Bruenig / "Reunion" by Eliza Victoria from A Bottle of Storm Clouds / Memo to Human Resources by They Might Be Giants / "Path Between Houses" by Greg Rappleye / Sweet Hibiscus Tea by Penelope Scott / "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot

[nutmeg-cider]

the love song of j. alfred prufrock (t.s. eliot) // what we do in the shadows 5.03

[wittgensteinsmistrust]

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

T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

[chiliontherocks]

hang on it's 2/2 let me post this old comic from last year

[misti31]

[zwischen-immer-und-nie]

T. S. Eliot, from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" (1915)

[tiktaaliker]

i can't find an image of gar can you show me one pls? also shoutout ts eliot in the bio

oh man the reason why you cant find gar is because ive only drawn the guy once ever

gar is the second to the left, the brown dog-adjacent thing with robot hands. he's the founder of DIRE and also an asshole. btw i still love this group pic because it really brings out how much they do NOT work together visually which is entirely intentional. DIRE is a complete mess

[shy-veil]

My Chemical Romance - The Jetset Life is Gonna Kill You / T.S. Eliot - The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

[fine-nephrit]

🥏 TXF Fic Rec #34: "SN 1572" by Prufrock’s Love

Oh boy, I couldn’t put this one down. I stayed up all night finishing it in one sitting. It’s a gritty post-colonization epic by the legendary PFL, featuring dark, angst-ridden MSR so powerful it breaks my heart.

The Mad Max-ish post-apocalyptic world is well fleshed out with detailed realism and compelling original characters that pull you right in. The writing is emotional, beautiful, and utterly gut-wrenching. It has daring and intriguing plot developments, an effective nonlinear narrative, and tense action-adventure set pieces with high emotional stakes. PFL’s storytelling prowess dazzles in action.

My only quibble is that PFL is an obvious Mulderist. She depicts him pushed to the extreme, turning into a darker, broken persona, yet still exceptionally competent and lovable. Meanwhile, her Scully is not quite my Scully, as she’s in a more restricted and passive role than I’d like.

Nevertheless, what a story! It’s well-deserved to sit among the classics, and I consider it essential reading for this fandom.

---

🥏 on ColonizationHQ archive

length: novel, 99,000+ words season: early season 7 pairing(s): M/S UST to RST, Scully/Other, Mulder/Other tags: post-col, angst, separated/reunited, canon supporting cast, good OCs, Scully-POV rating: explicit/NC-17

[cosmik-homo]

I really can't quite explain it, but I think "Once in a lifetime" by the Talking Heads and The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock (by T.S. Elliott) really are about the same thing. Things. I'm very normal about these pieces.

[julianpeterscomics]

"The Waste Land" by T. S. Eliot, page 1

Ever since completing my comics adaptation of T. S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” I have wanted to do something similar with Eliot’s most famous and celebrated poem, “The Waste Land.” But besides being extremely complex and often difficult to interpret,”The Waste Land” (First published 1922) is very long, and this always deterred me from getting started. It was only recently that…

[alliwanttodoiscollectpoetry]

Excerpt from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot

[nutmeg-cider]

afraid

the love song of j. alfred prufrock (t.s. eliot) // what we do in the shadows 4.06

[poems-from-around-the-world]

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock - T.S. Eliot - USA

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question ...

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

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.

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 know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

               So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

               And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

               And should I then presume?

               And how should I begin?

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? ...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it towards some overwhelming question,

To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—

If one, settling a pillow by her head

               Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;

               That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—

And this, and so much more?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

               “That is not it at all,

               That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.