The jury’s still out.
I’m only seconds into a digital copy of T.S. Eliot’s famous ode to adolescence, The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock, when my ears prickle uncomfortably. As I read—”Let us go then, you and I, / When the evening is spread out against the sky, / Like a patient etherised upon a table”—a soft rock track reminiscent of James Taylor begins to crescendo in the background. Eliot’s arch observations are drowned out by the acoustic guitar and its upbeat melody.
