{"id":15254,"date":"2011-05-09T08:00:01","date_gmt":"2011-05-09T12:00:01","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=15254"},"modified":"2011-05-09T17:26:19","modified_gmt":"2011-05-09T21:26:19","slug":"david-orr-lost-in-the-archives-december-1985","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2011\/05\/09\/david-orr-lost-in-the-archives-december-1985\/","title":{"rendered":"David Orr: Lost in the Archives, December 1985"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Philip Larkin.<\/p><\/div>\n

Philip Larkin was the first poet I understood. He wasn\u2019t the first poet I could write a reasonably coherent college essay about (that was probably George Herbert), nor was he the first poet whose poems I memorized (Vachel Lindsay, although in fairness, I was twelve). But Larkin was the first poet whose sensibility I felt I grasped in most of its dimensions: he appeared not as a blueprint, but as an actual structure. And a very peculiar structure at that. When I think of Larkin, I imagine a cathedral filled with cheap gray metal desks, or possibly a strip mall with a belfry. Indeed, Larkin combines so many opposed elements of lyric tradition and modern consciousness that he comes close to being the writerly equivalent of a folly\u2014and he has a folly\u2019s ability to seem simultaneously monumental and embarrassingly personal.<\/p>\n

Yet people still often describe this complicated figure in one of two fairly straightforward ways. The first is to claim that Larkin is a wry poet of good-natured grumbling and resolute sanity, a portrait that has the virtue of being so inaccurate as to form a likeness in negative. The second way, which became more prevalent after Andrew Motion\u2019s dirt-dishing biography was published, is to claim that Larkin was a nasty man whose poems are filled with secret nastiness that reveals the fundamental nastiness of \u2026 well, something really nasty. Great Britain, maybe. (I\u2019ve written about some of these issues before; you can read further here<\/a>, if you\u2019re curious.)<\/p>\n

Maybe it\u2019s enough to say that Larkin\u2014like Stevie Smith, like Bishop\u2014is the kind of poet we seem bent on reducing, in part because he often seems desperately eager to contain something about himself. One of the more interesting perspectives on Larkin appears in an essay by Donald Justice from 1995. Justice\u2019s nominal subject is Larkin\u2019s short yet masterful poem \u201cComing,\u201d but the real topic is exactly this kind of restraint:<\/p>\n

\n

It has been claimed for Larkin that he was never sentimental, never brutal. But the truth is that I find him both sentimental and brutal, though in different poems, or in different parts of the same poem \u2026 Irony, diffidence, skepticism, wit: not all of these together are enough to keep out a certain unreasonableness of feeling<\/em>\u2014the sentiment, the sentimentality\u2014that keeps rising up out of Larkin\u2019s poems. Actually, it is what saves them. Doesn\u2019t everybody really know this?<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Everybody doesn\u2019t know it, actually. Even now.<\/p>\n

Larkin died in December of 1985, right before the Winter issue<\/a> of The Paris Review<\/em> came out. There isn\u2019t much Larkin in the poetry from this issue, although there\u2019s some charming post-romantic work<\/a> from Stanley Plumly and some Gritty Urban Angst \u00ae<\/a> from Jim Carroll. But there are little hints of Larkin in a few places. Take the end of this poem<\/a> from Robert Shaw, about two lovers having one of their final conversations on a pay phone (ah, the pre-cell era!) while the rain starts to fall first in one party\u2019s location, then in the other\u2019s:<\/p>\n

\n

\u2026 in a minute or two
\nI saw a few sprinkles,
\nconfirming the proverb,
\nyou might say, about
\nthe just and the unjust.
\nBut only just.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

The wit at the end recalls Larkin, as does the focus on guilt and failure. But the poem misses what Justice calls Larkin\u2019s \u201cgreat chancy leaps,\u201d his uncanny maneuvers from register to register. Oddly enough, the most Larkinesque moment in this issue occurs during the \u201cArt of Fiction\u201d interview with Robert Stone<\/a>:<\/p>\n

\n

INTERVIEWER<\/p>\n

That [Stone\u2019s combination of immediacy and philosophical distance] would account for the shifting levels of your rhetoric, which plays the colloquial against high ornamentation. The effect is a constant tone of irony.<\/p>\n

STONE<\/p>\n

Irony is my friend and brother. \u201cTo know true things by what their mockeries be.\u201d There\u2019s only one subject for fiction or poetry or even a joke: how it is<\/em>. In all the arts, the payoff is always the same: recognition. If it works, you say that\u2019s real, that\u2019s truth, that\u2019s life, that\u2019s the way things are. \u201cThere it is.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

This is what motivates Larkin as well, and it\u2019s why his first mature collection is called \u201cThe Less Deceived.\u201d If you know that your writing comes from \u201ca certain unreasonableness of feeling,\u201d then you may find yourself thinking constantly about what would<\/em> be reasonable. You may focus on seeing things\u2014seeing \u201cit\u201d\u2014clearly. In Larkin, \u201cit\u201d is constantly being reduced, framed, put in its place, and yet \u201cit\u201d keeps bursting forth. Until there it is, as if it has always been there and could never be anywhere else.<\/p>\n

David Orr<\/a> is the poetry columnist for <\/em>The New York Times Book Review and the author of<\/em>Beautiful and Pointless: A Guide to Modern Poetry<\/a>. He will be\u00a0blogging<\/a> from time to time about poetry from <\/em>The Paris Review\u2019s back issues.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Philip Larkin was the first poet I understood. He wasn\u2019t the first poet I could write a reasonably coherent college essay about (that was probably George Herbert), nor was he the first poet whose poems I memorized (Vachel Lindsay, although in fairness, I was twelve). But Larkin was the first poet whose sensibility I felt […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":160,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2157],"tags":[33,1987,2254,2253,165],"class_list":["post-15254","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-on-poetry","tag-archives","tag-david-orr","tag-december-1985","tag-philip-larkin","tag-poetry"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nDavid Orr: Lost in the Archives, December 1985 by David Orr<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"May 9, 2011 \u2013 Philip Larkin was the first poet I understood. 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