Description
Larkin, Philip (1922 – 1985)
‘I have completely abandoned the problems of living in favour of the problems of writing’
A superb four-page autograph letter signed by Philip Larkin (‘Philip’), 12th May 1944, on Wellington Public Library headed paper. The young poet come librarian writes to an old University friend, Karl Lehmann on a variety of topics, employing Larkinian wit and self-deprecation at every turn.
He opens, ‘My dear Karl, Sorry to write on this bumf, but it is available, and I do not have to pay my own money for it. It was charming of you to write: I had been preparing to for several days, collecting what sundry scraps of information I had together, and deciding that I couldn’t possibly in all decency delay another day. Now your letter has arrived and I am answering it in preference to doing the day’s work, which being my own master I can do with impunity.’ He goes on, ‘I regret too that we did not have more intercourse together (as Alan Ross would say) but I was in a drifting mood and not prepared forcibly to yank the conversation into desired channels. Yes, I should think by now Bruce [Montgomery] and I are irritatingly esoteric – I apologise for it, but we see so much of each other that it’s hardly avoidable. He is remarkably decent on close acquaintance – though egocentric – and we get on famously. I should think he’s about my closest friend at the moment. As regards Philip [Brown] the answer is yes to both questions – she is one of Frankel’s discarded woman (though I don’t think Frankel knows it yet) and he has slept with her, not once but many times. I think I prefer him homo too, but then I’m biased. She is called Miriam and is from the Slade. I don’t know her well, and she does look silly, but Philip assures me there is more in her than meets the eye. I don’t think that is likely, somehow.’
Larkin then moves on to his writing: ‘I am still going hard at Jill. It is really pathetically bad, judged by objective standards (which I can just about apply if I close my eyes and take a deep breath) but as a private myth the story is fine. It should be finished in a week or so. I am so pleased with myself because I have worked at it continuously for ten months often under adverse conditions, thus proving to myself that I can, physically, write. You must read it sometime. It’ll send you into fits. I am sorry to say that I have completely abandoned the problems of living in favour of the problems of writing. This attitude will probably have a deleterious effect on both activities, but I don’t care. I don’t pretend to control my life. I let it control me, and then I write down what it does.’
‘As regards Jane Austen, I am somewhat hazy: the only two I know are Jane Austen, by R. B. Johnson and Janes Austen: a survey, by C. L. Thomson. I am not sure how far these are biographies, but they are pretty standard and should suit your purpose at least to start with. I read anything that comes to hand like a confirmed drunkard swallowing any liquid he can get his hands on. Nothing serious, of course- novels and poetry, and of the last only the old favourites – Dylan, Hopkins, Yeats, and – strange to say – Sidney Keyes, or at least I did read him intensively some time ago. I also got hold of John HS’s Beauty o the Beast, and, as he had once asked me to tell him what I thought of it, sent him rather an offensive letter. I don’t suppose we shall be on speaking terms any more, not that that troubles me greatly.’
Returning to friends in common with his correspondent, Larkin continues, ‘As regards Weinstein, yes, I knew him fairly well. I heard he was trying to get into the BBC. Don’t have anything to do with him: he is humourless and dry. One never strikes an answering spark from the damp tinder of his mind. He read P.P.E. and got a 2nd. When at Oxford he was always organising Boys’ Clubs and going for cycling rides dressed as a cyclist. In fact, we regarded him as a joke more than anything else. AND HE DOES STICK. Beware. And many thanks for Hugh’s address and Jimmy’s letter which I return. The latter was inimitable, and troubles me in my monastic solitude. Of course I agree about the Yanks. They seem to lack not only personal delicacy but physical grace, and I must have one of the other. Bloody bastards.’
Larkin closes, ‘Many thanks again for writing, and I should love to see you again, but when I don’t know. It costs 20/6 to get to Oxford from here, and that makes a hole in my meagre salary. Much love, Philip’.
In very fine condition. A rare and interesting letter stemming from an important transitional period in the young Larkin’s life, and sparkling with this trademark dry wit.