The narrow road to Hull

Anthony Powell

THE SELECTED LETTERS OF PHILIP LARKIN edited by Anthony Thwaite Faber, £20, pp. 791 Atthony Thwaite must have been confronted with not a few problems in edit- ing these letters. He has done the job admirably. Philip Larkin (1922-1985) kept certain friends from his schooldays in Coventry as correspondents, while at the Other end of the scale is an Oxford contemporary like Kingsley Amis. Robert Conquest, the historian of Soviet Russia, who met Larkin through Amis after the war, received many of the letters here, and Judy Egerton, an Australian art-historian. Quite a substantial proportion of the letters deal with jazz, about which Larkin wrote professionally. Thwaite provides a useful Who's Who at the beginning.

'Yes, I think Waugh's letters become more acceptable after the war [Larkin to Judy Egerton, 12 November, 1980]. After castigat- ing them in the Guardian I wondered how my own would rank for 'charity' — not very highly, I should imagine, and a good deal duller. I bought Kingsley's short stories the other day. I have most of them already, and the ones I haven't aren't worth E6.95.

For charity Larkin's letters would cer- tainly rank very low indeed, but there is much interesting stuff, largely about him- self, a subject that absorbed him to a nar- cissistic extent. There is always a lot about masturbation, in the earlier letters homo- sexual, or at least bisexual leanings. All his life Larkin liked to be copiously supplied with porn, chiefly flagellant. The immense foul-mouthedness of expression is perhaps a sign of a certain kind of insecurity, and is varied with the locutions of Billy Bunter. To Amis he wrote (9 August, 1945): I really do not think it likely that I shall ever get into the same bed as any one again because it is so much trouble, almost as much trouble as standing for Parliament. I have formed a very low opinion of women and the idea of having one perpetually following me about is wearisome.

On the outbreak of war Larkin, graded C3 owing to his eyesight, had to find a job. He saw an advertisement for a librarian in Shropshire, applied, although he had no training, and was taken on. This led to spending his life as a librarian in various places, notably Belfast, latterly Hull. It is Hull where one always thinks of him. This limited experience may in some ways have been advantageous to his poetry. It was, in any case, completely accepted by him. At the same time a kind of 'provincialism' was not excluded from some Larkin attitudes, particularly in a total lack of interest in all foreign literature. This narrowness of mind must always be remembered about Larkin's judgments.

The letters provide some surprising disclosures, one of these that Larkin want- ed to be a novelist, regarding novel-writing as a higher calling than poetry. The two novels he wrote are clearly publishable, but oddly lacking in distinction, nor was he a great novel-reader himself. In that sphere he liked the Powyses, and much admittedly middlebrow matter, the last descending to what might be called lower-middlebrow. He must, however, be given the credit for marking down Barbara Pym (to whom there are many letters) even before her seven-year abandonment by her publisher. I had always imagined it was in these straits that Larkin had come to her rescue, but it was long before.

His familiarity with English poetry was obviously extensive, if cantankerous. 'Who cares about asses like Blake or bores like Byron!' he wrote to his longtime girlfriend Monica Jones (3 November, 1958). He liked Praed, long underrated, but it is unexpected to find him keen on the 'No, Jason — when Christopher Robin went to the Palace he wasn't casing the joint.' Victorian follower of Praed in very de societe, Frederick Locker Lampson, with whose verse I happen to be familiar, because my housemaster was devoted to him, endlessly repeating Locker Lampson's lines to a horse of Lord Rosebery's:

And the winner of the Guineas And the Derby proudly whinnies When e'er the Opposition take a fall.

On the non-charitable side, of which there is abundant evidence, I confess to being a shade taken aback to find myself described, with other no less uncomplimen- tary comments, as a 'creep' and a 'horse- faced dwarf'. I had always imagined we were on friendly terms since Amis had brought us together in 1958. We used to meet occasionally, and Larkin had invited himself and his girlfriend to lunch once when he found himself in the neighbour- hood. As may be seen here, in a letter (19 April, 1985) of the year of his death he sends 'affectionate good wishes to you both'. After our first meeting he had written to someone that I was the same height as Amis, whom Larkin presumably always regarded as a dwarf too, though indisputably non-equine in feature.

However, even so old a friend as Amis himself caught it sometimes. Larkin had an obsessive fear of death, but he was able to write to Conquest (30 October, 1983):

The only reason I hope to pre-decease him is that I'd find it impossible to say anything nice about him at his memorial service.

Conquest is one of the few correspondents who is rarely, if ever, abused, then only for minor misdemeanours, and at least once actually praised (deservedly) for his 'nice nature'.

A matter that has often been misunder- stood is made uncompromisingly plain here. In Larkin's poem, 'Naturally the Foundation Will Bear Your Expenses' occur the lines:

That Day when Queen and Minister And Band of Guards and all Still act their solemn-sinister Wreath-rubbish in Whitehall.

It has been supposed by some that these were Larkin's own views. Nothing could be further from the case. The speaker is intended to represent the smug anti- patriotic Left Wing academic, a type Larkin most loathed. He writes to Anthony Thwaite (11 November, 1984):

Watched the Cenotaph ceremony as usual, that day when Queen and minister, etc. Very moving. Never as moving as some years ago now when there was a very poignant render- ing of 'When I am laid in earth' by Cornet — it may have been the way the mikes were sta- tioned, but I've never heard anything like it before or since, though they play it every year. Poignant plangent pangs! Nowadays one's half-waiting for Brendan O'Seagbeag to press the button. Filthy pack of swine.