C H A R A C T E R

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♔ Physically;
              J. Alfred Prufrock is not an imposing figure. He is well-dressed, though looking at him, one might expect to find holes in his pockets, or threadbare patches hidden inexpertly by the fall of his tie; a kind of shabbiness, a touch of quiet desperation, is evident in his appearance. His hair is thinning, slightly; a pair of glasses perched upon his sharp nose suggesting that his eyesight is not what it once had been.
              For the purposes of having a visual aid, and because there's a certain lack of physical description in his canon, I am using as a pb the author of the poem, T.S. Eliot, as well as assorted stock photography. I am not [unless expressly noted] the owner of any of these images, though I am responsible for creating the icons. If you'd like to use them, I'd appreciate credit (and moreso, I'd appreciate a note left here, because I'm curious by nature,) but I won't hunt you down crying.

♔ Personality;
[under construction]

♔ Socially;
              If one were forced to describe him in one word, it may well be hesitant. While Prufrock would deeply, dearly love to form a proper connection with another human being, he's accustomed to a degree of social isolation. He feels estranged from his own society, and is preoccupied with the knowledge that his point of view differs from the dominant point of view held by those around him-- and his fear that he will be mocked for this difference makes it difficult for him to initiate or maintain conversations. Canonically, much of Prufrock's "song" hovers obsessively around issues of miscommunication, noncommunication-- do I dare, would it have been worth it, and so forth; his deep uncertainty and discomfort outweighs his desire to connect, to commune, to be emotionally and intellectually intimate.
              In practical terms; this means he will be uncomfortable starting conversations with other characters, and that tags from him will probably contain an uncomfortable amount of wordy narration and inner-monologuing. Sorry about that. But, well... He is who he is, and I wouldn't feel I was doing him any justice if he was too bubbly. Do feel free to react accordingly to his reticence, and to pick up on nonverbal cues about his behavior. They're there for a reason. He'd love to get to know your characters, he just isn't very good at it at all.

♔ Continuity;
              Given the sparsity of his 'canon,' I don't really play him from a particular point in the poem; for the purposes of book_dressing he's arrived in the Library after leaving the party hinted at in the earlier stanzas, though I presume that much of the 'action' of the poem is retrospective or imaginary, so don't be surprised if it is referenced.
              In writing Prufrock I also occasionally reference other of Eliot's works, particularly The Waste Land and Knowledge and Experience in the Philosophy of F. H. Bradley. I don't mean to imply that Prufrock is synonymous with Eliot, or with any of the characters in his other poetry; it's merely a matter of allusion for my own enjoyment, and for the expansion of j. alfred's palette of familiar metaphors. In other words-- none of Eliot's other writing [though i love it dearly] counts as prufrock's 'canon.'