“I work all day, and get half-drunk at night. Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare. In time the curtain-edges will grow light. Till then I see what’s really always there: Unresting death, a whole day nearer now, Making all thought impossible but how And where and when I shall myself die. Arid interrogation: yet the dread Of dying, and being dead, Flashes afresh to hold and horrify. The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse —The good not done, the love not given, time Torn off unused—nor wretchedly because An only life can take so long to climb Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never; But at the total emptiness for ever, The sure extinction that we travel to And shall be lost in always. Not to be here, Not to be anywhere, And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true. This is a special way of being afraid No trick dispels. Religion used to try, That vast moth-eaten musical brocade Created to pretend we never die, And specious stuff that says No rational being Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing That this is what we fear—no sight, no sound, No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with, Nothing to love or link with, The anaesthetic from which none come round. And so it stays just on the edge of vision, A small unfocused blur, a standing chill That slows each impulse down to indecision. Most things may never happen: this one will, And realisation of it rages out In furnace-fear when we are caught without People or drink. Courage is no good: It means not scaring others. Being brave Lets no one off the grave. Death is no different whined at than withstood. Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape. It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know, Have always known, know that we can’t escape, Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go. Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring Intricate rented world begins to rouse. The sky is white as clay, with no sun. Work has to be done. Postmen like doctors go from house to house.”
Quote by Philip Larkin
Work
This book is a collection of poems that spans different styles and themes, showcasing the diversity of poetic expression. more
Author
Philip Larkin (August 9, 1922 – December 2, 1985) was a renowned English poet, novelist, and librarian. He is widely regarded as one of the greatest poets of post-war Britain, known for his concise, bleak, and ironic style. Born in Coventry, Larkin studied at St John's College, Oxford. His major works include the poetry collections 'The Whitsun Weddings' and 'High Windows', and the novel 'Jill'. He spent most of his career as librarian at the University of Hull. Larkin's poetry often explores themes of death, loneliness, love, and the absurdity of everyday life. He rejected modernism in favor of traditional forms, and his precise, musical language earned him the Queen's Gold Medal for Poetry. His work continues to influence poets and readers worldwide. more
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