1 This exact quotation seems not to appear in any work by Llewelyn Powys, nor in his letters. Anthony Head and Peter Foss suggest that Larkin may be misremembering his source, or paraphrasing a sentiment frequently expressed in Powys’s work. In Impassioned Clay (1931), for instance, he writes (98): ‘It should be an open secret that nothing really matters, that once in a graveyard all is at quits.’
25 April 1955
11 Outlands Road, Cottingham, E. Yorks
My dear old Creature,
I’m sorry I left you without a proper letter for today – after I’d posted the one I wrote I found I had yours with me after all. Anyway, I’m settled now in my armchair in the rather chilly bedroom upstairs, with cotton wool from my bottle of aspirins stuffed in my ears, the radio on downstairs, and the noise of witless children audible from the street – or the road – outside.1
Probably I’ve not said much about this lodging so far, but it’s not bad for lodging, which I’m afraid is not saying enough for my peace of mind. Mrs. Dowling is very kind and obliging, the food she provides is quite good, there is an orange cat for company, and her 15 yr old son is not too bad, but oh dear! this wireless curse is as strong here as anywhere else – in the sense that I can’t concentrate in the evenings as I want to – and I feel not at home, like someone trying to sleep in a hotel lobby. Last week I answered an advertisement for a flat, & had an appointment to go to see it, but it went before my turn came. […]
God, the radio below is hideous. So loud! I think they must be deaf, or else it’s turned up so that she can hear it in the kitchen, or something. How horrible it is, to be helpless in the power of people in this way! I must do something to better myself, though I don’t expect I’ll ever be as comfortable again as at Belfast. I feel as if I were back in Glentworth, King Street. It is awful to have nowhere to go to be quiet: it makes the day’s work twice as hard. The radio goes bellowing on: wish there’d be a strike on that, a permanent one.
Well, dear old creature, I don’t sound very cheerful, do I? and there are you with too much silence & here am I with not enough. Truly, life is a curious thing and doesn’t improve much on acquaintance, though I know I could be worse off by far. I hope there are one or two interesting shoots in your garden. I had your letter-card today of course.
With all love, Philip
1 Number 11 Outlands Road is near its junction with the main Hull Road, Cottingham.
12 May 1955
11 Outlands Road, Cottingham, E. Yorks
My dear old creature,
I’ve been thinking of you a lot this week, wondering how you are. Wasn’t the cold snap that we had yesterday terrible? I was simply frozen. It’s been a fairly dull but no doubt important week, for last night we gave a dinner to the Treasury Committee responsible for University Grants, and today they came round the University looking at things, my library included. I’m afraid there’s an awful lot of hard work ahead of your creature. New plans for the library arrived today, & I’ve been looking at them – the fruit of my Easter deliberations! More and more I feel that they have got the wrong man.
I hope you are managing to keep up your afternoon rests, and have been able to put into operation the routine for shutting up the scullery: one, off with the main gas tap, two, lock the scullery door. Then it’s all over. No need to worry any more.
Turn the gas tap half round,
Then creature can sleep sound;
Plugs that are lying on the floor
Needn’t trouble creature more;
Shut the door, put out the light,
Happy creature sleeps all night.1
– and I do hope it will. Don’t worry. You are no madder than the rest of us, and much nicer!
Very dull evening here: I can’t settle to anything. I’m due to have a bath, for once.
I did like being in my little crowded room at home – better than here, by a long chalk.
Very much love, Philip
1 This poem is published here for the first time.
23 May 1955
FROM C:
TO OC:
It’s just after 5, and the thermometer on my desk says 80°, so you can see I’m not freezing. The journey back was quite successful, though tiring, & the London train I get between Grantham & Selby very crowded – I sat on my case in the corridor all the way. Well, it was only an hour really. Really, it’s just luck if you get a seat & I wasn’t lucky. On Selby platform I met George Hartley (the man who’s supposed to be doing my poems)2 & we talked literature all the way home.
I finally got to Outlands Road about 25 to 11, as I miss a bus very inconveniently, arriving when I do.
Dear old creature, I did love seeing you, & I’m sorry we didn’t have our walk up the garden. Home seemed pleasant and restful: you are always very kind to me, for very beggarly returns.
Creatures who tremble every day
At gloomy clouds across the sky,
Remember they are miles away
With very different fish to fry.1
Mrs Dowling asked how Rosemary got on with her dancing exam, so do tell me, won’t you?
All love,
Philip
1 This poem is published here for the first time.
2 George Hartley (b. 1933), with his wife Jean, published the poetry magazine Listen from their tiny house in Hessle, just outside Hull. Larkin published poems in the 1954 issues and Hartley proposed setting up the Marvell Press to publish a volume of his work. Having been rejected by mainstream publishers, Larkin agreed, and The Less Deceived was published in Hull in November 1955, six months after Larkin arrived in Hull. See Jean Hartley, Philip Larkin, the Marvell Press and Me (London: Sumach Press, 1993).
5 June 1955
200 Hallgate, Cottingham, E. Yorks
My very dear old creature,
I hardly know exactly how to write this week: as you see, I’ve moved, and as you can guess I don’t feel especially cheerful, but I think it should be laid down that the wretchedness of moving is not really related to where one moves to or from. Of course it is in a way, but not so much as you might expect. The wretchedness of moving is like losing a skin – one is in fact losing a whole set of circumstances and things one takes for granted, all very simple, but by their immediate relation to the way you live very influential – bed, food, noises, warmth & so on. Deprived of these at a blow & thrust into another set, one feels as if skinned and clad in a coarse shirt. Of course this new shirt of circumstances becomes one’s skin in time. But until it has one feels, as I say, wretched, and I don’t intend to minimise this! I think I slept about 3 hours last night – 2 till 5 – and lay awake the rest of the time, simply unable to settle. Nor can I eat: my stomach has screwed itself up into a ball. However, this will pass. Of the place, well, I suppose it is an improvement on where I was – it’s certainly quieter, or will be when I get used to it. The bedroom is not so bad, though too small, & the tiny kitchen they have tried to fit out usefully. Yes, it is quite clean. I can’t write very enthusiastically about it because the first wretchedness hasn’t worn off. The only thing is it has rather an odd smell – on the stairs, anyway. Mrs Squire is a nice old thing, & obviously hopes I shall stay a long while. I don’t feel so keen on this myself at present! But what is the alternative? […]
Your cowed but courageous (& very loving)
Creature
24 June 1955
In Train.
Very dear old creature,
[…] So you are going to see a psychiatrist! It’s very bold of you, but I expect if he proposes shock therapy he won’t “see your arse for dust”, to use a vulgar expression – but I shall be waiting very anxiously to hear what he says. Suppose he says you shd become a voluntary patient in a mental hospital? Somehow you seem much too sane for such measures. Perhaps you will find it helps you just to see him.1
/> God! I feel pretty grim – & this letter is no pleasure to read, I know, scrawled as it is,2 but my thoughts are very near to you, dear creature, nearer even than my body, which must in fact be quite near. I’ll write on Sunday as usual, to tell you the news. Love – P.
1 On 20 June Eva had written: ‘I went to see the Doctor last Friday, really for a fresh supply of capsules. He has, however, arranged for me to see a Psychiatrist on 4th July. I don’t know whether it is a man or woman doctor. I may as well hear what treatment is advised – but whether I shall agree to take it is another matter. Dr Jenner says I needn’t take it unless I wish. Really I haven’t much hope that anyone can give me the courage which, above all things, I need.’
2 The effect of the train’s movement is visible in the handwriting.
26 June 1955
Eastgate Hotel, Oxford1
My very dear old creature,
It is a very paper-thin creature who addresses you this morning, for I was in a poor way last night & am not by any means recovered this morning – breakfast was a mere token meal, at which I ate 2 pieces of toast & toyed (that’s the word, isn’t it) with a grapefruit, but the coffee, which should have been a life-saver, was so villainous that I felt sicker, not stronger, in consequence of its ministrations. I hardly feel capable of describing the day, but the weather was gloriously hot, & I shd say it was a complete success. I met a number of people I had forgotten about, & some I hadn’t. The Dean, an old enemy, hailed me & said a few kind words – nothing succeeds like success! Noel Hughes, my old room-mate, was there, with an irritatingly-attractive wife. I spent a lot of time with John Wain, who is a literary gent & writer, you may recall, & as time wore on got so intoxicated I can’t attribute my safe return home to anything but divine providence. I remember John & I sitting in an unlighted room eating strawberries & cream & drinking champagne at one point: then later on there were fireworks, a splendid sight. I must have written something legible in the hotel book when I got in, for the S. Times & The Observer were delivered under my door at an early hour. I expect I made a terrible row coming in. I remember staggering about the corridor treading on people’s shoes. However, don’t think I was incapable – far from it.
Today is another hot sunny day. Yesterday morning I took a walk in Christ Church meadows and it was simply marvellous – the squirrels were about, & I got quite near to one & could watch it clambering down a tree trunk & sitting up in the grass to eat something. To walk along the deserted paths by the river with the dew still on the grass & the cows grouped in the middle of the field (sign of fine weather!) was a wonderful treat for me, & I felt really glad to be alive. How I love summer, hay fever or no hay fever! Gorgeous rich expansion of everything! I felt I wanted to stay there for ever. However, having come with no pyjamas I had to go to the shops & buy some – a lovely pink pair.2 Then I had some lager in the Randolph & met David Williams, a portly barrister by now, & then the fun started.
Dear old creature, I’m afraid this isn’t a very interesting letter but it is a happy one for a change! and considering the way I feel it is rather wonderful to write a letter at all. With all love,
Philip
1 Larkin was attending the 400th anniversary celebration of the foundation of St John’s College.
2 Eva commented: ‘What a poetical, but absent-minded Creature you are! However, another pair isn’t a bad investment, and I only hope the laundry won’t spoil the lovely pink colour’ (28 June).
3 July 1955
200 Hallgate, Cottingham
My dear old creature,
[…] The subscription forms for my book of poems have been printed, and indeed Kitty may have one by now. Of course I don’t especially want the family to pay, but I thought she might like her name in the back along with a motley crew of mugs and literati who (we hope) will send along their six bobs, so if she wd like her name in the back, wd she subscribe in the normal way. If not, then she needn’t trouble. Wd you like your name in the back? Personally I’d as soon keep anyone called Larkin out of the list, it looks so silly, but if you have ambitions in that direction, let me know.1 There’s plenty of time. I expect the publication will produce some worries & bothers as well as pleasure. Some of the poems, as I think I said, are rather subversive for a righteous official like me.
Well, it is 12.15 & the rain is pelting down still. I got thoroughly soaked the other evening, stupid creature, cycling back from the library.
Is it tomorrow you visit the psychiatrist? I wonder if you feel wobbly about it. I expect I shd – afraid he wd clap me into a padded cell right away. You have all my sympathy, & I hope it does you good to go.2 I’m glad Rosemary passed her dancing exam so well.
All my best love – I hope the sun will shine on your furry head – Philip
1 Eva was not included; Catherine Hewett (no longer ‘Larkin’) was.
2 On 5 July Eva wrote: ‘I have just returned from Leicester, where I have spent a most happy afternoon with Dr Folwell. I really bless the day that you took me to see her. She is the most marvellous woman I have ever met. I got a very nice letter from her on Saturday suggesting that when I had seen the psychiatrist I should go over to see her and tell her all about it. So I went today. / There really wasn’t much to tell, for the psychiatrist was very non-committal – It was a lady, and she wrote down all I said, but beyond saying that she thought I ought to have someone to live with me, and get out as much as possible, she said very little.’
11 August 19551
200 Hallgate, Cottingham, E. Yorks
My dear old creature,
[…] I’m going down to London for the weekend but hope to write from there. If my poems are broadcast, it will be on August 17th (Wednesday evening) in a programme presented by Richard Murphy.2 If you should hear one containing a disrespective reference to “home”, I was quite honestly thinking of my room in Belfast – which I’d give a lot to have back now, anyway!3 Nothing to do with Loughborough, or Old Creature.
I did almost nothing on my birthday but pursue my orderly & decent progress towards The Grave … went to the cinema in the evening & had an expensive and nasty meal, alone. Booo!
Much love, enjoy yourself. How is the weather chart?
Philip
1 Addressed to Nellie Day’s home at 33 Grange Road, North, Hyde, Cheshire.
2 Richard Murphy (1927–2018), Anglo-Irish poet. He married Patsy Strang in 1955, and was later the second Compton Poetry Fellow at Hull. See letters of 18 May and 14 September 1969.
3 ‘Poetry of Departures’.
14 September 1955
Postcard1
We arrived after [a] very rough sail – an hour long – fortunately we both stood it. Cold & wet here, thunder & wind! Not the best time of year. Fellow guests nothing to write home about so I won’t. Real cream on Guernsey – didn’t have any: others who did lost it on the sail over.
Love, P
1 Dixcart Hotel, Sark.
30 September 1955
200 Hallgate, Cottingham
My very dear old creature,
[…] I was also very grateful for the news that you had washed “the basque”, as it is a worthwhile garment and should be taken care of.1 […]
Much love, dear creature – hope to be home soon, P.
1 On 27 September Eva had written: ‘I have had a very busy day to-day, to compensate for my little holiday yesterday. Have been washing most of the time and really got to the bottom of the linen basket. I have washed the things you left, also the green socks and the “basque”, and the trousers, so feel very satisfied that they are all cleared up at last!’ The basque must have been Monica’s.
9 October 1955
200 Hallgate, Cottingham, E. Yorks.
My dear old Creature,
I seem, temporarily, to be rather short of writing-paper, but I expect you remember this sort from the old days. It’s the kind Pop would use isn’t it: it’s strange that I can never remember anything of the kind of letters he used to write. They were very s
hort and dry, weren’t they? and slightly ironic.
Well, to give this village its due, it’s certainly lovely at present. Yesterday we had a fiendish “ceremony” in the morning relating to degrees, but once I got back home & rested, I went out to the local branch library to change my books & was overwhelmed by the soft beauty of the afternoon. Mrs Squire’s garden is tidied up for the winter now, but is still strewn with squashy plums, apples (a curious tiny shiny high-coloured sort) and pears. The churchyard1 has clumps of Michaelmas daisies, chill blurs of mauve, and the leaves do not seem to have turned yet. I bought 2 tea-spoons (4/½d the two!) and a root of celery, and experienced a feeling I’ve felt before – that, outside my own miserable cramped absurd life, the world is still its old beautiful self. This morning the sun shines, & I think I shall go a cycle ride, if it doesn’t rain. I wish it were possible to convert the happiness we find in ordinary things into a comfortable way of life for all of us.
You sound a gay creature with your new clothes, what Lawrence would call a “bobby-dazzler”.2 Surely you are always having new hats and handbags! Vanity, saith the preacher!3 Still, as Kingsley wd say, where is the point in not?
I’ve sent K. her copy of Kingsley’s book,4 & I hope she enjoys it. There’s not nearly so much of me in this one, hardly anything in fact, but there are one or two things. […]
Love, Philip
1 St Mary’s Church, Hallgate, Cottingham, where Larkin’s funeral took place thirty years later.
2 On 9 October Eva wrote: ‘You remarked that I sounded full of beans, well I certainly do feel better than I have felt for a long time. Whether it is due to the tablets which the psychiatrist prescribed and which I still take, or whether the fact that there is now less risk of storms as we draw nearer to winter, I do not know. Neither do I know how I should feel if I heard a rumble of thunder at this moment!! […] From Ye olde Creature.’
Philip Larkin Page 32
