The New Criterion

For a supposedly private man, Philip Larkin was punctilious about his public image, as a recent “Commentary” in the Times Literary Supplement (April 3, 2009) recalls: the cub reporter for the Times Educational Supplement sent to interview the barely known poet in 1956 found the shy librarian could be a demanding subject. He generously agreed to let Larkin vet the piece, which Larkin virtually rewrote. Such punctiliousness one can imagine of a poet so scrupulous and demanding of both himself and his work and it has given rise to the many myths about him that still abound. These were summed up by remarks later made in the TLS that the poet “has refused almost all invitations to judge, recite, review, lecture, pontificate, or to be interviewed.”

Perhaps the only element of truth here is that Larkin did not go in for public speaking—for judge, review, and give interviews he did, as well as recite, but not for a live audience. Larkin ascribed his reluctance to speak in public to a childhood stammer, which he overcame in adulthood; later in life, it was hearing difficulties. It was also the former speech problem that he claimed was responsible for his choice of career as a librarian rather than an academic or journalist. Yet in his vital role as a technocrat in the construction of the new library building for the University of Hull during the great years of expansion in higher education, he faced an endless round of meetings and negotiations. Indeed, he became quite the public figure: sitting on literary committees, publishing an anthology of twentieth-century English verse, judging competitions, sitting for publicity photographs, even writing public poetry and having it set to music.

The publication of Larkin’s Selected Letters (1992) seven years after his death gave rise to another myth—that of the misogynist, racist, and general bigot. Reviewers were unsparing in their condemnation of the man they had supposed to be “the hermit of Hull.” This dangerous man had summed up the postwar in austerity Britain and become the unsparing observer of the burgeoning consumerism that gradually overtook it. Fortunately, his recordings can temper this harsh view. Whether he jumped or was pushed, Larkin was quick to put out recordings of his poetry for the new market, perhaps because of the fact that he preferred not to read in public. But, like the poetry, his readings were skilfully crafted, with great attention to timbre, accent, and the lively addition of playful voices (he was a gifted mimic), which would certainly have endeared him to any audience.

The first were made by his publisher George Hartley, whose Marvell Press issued both The Less Deceived and The Whitsun Weddings, originally as long-playing records (in 1958 and 1964 respectively) then as Listen Cassettes, still available from the Philip Larkin Society. These readings were conceived almost as concert performances, chamber pieces perhaps, that follow the order of the poems exactly as it is in the book, with the additions of the poet’s own introductory remarks on the later recording. It was a format he followed again when recording High Windows for Argo in 1974. Thus it came as a surprise when the news emerged in early 2006 that Larkin had recorded a group of poems more in line with the selection for a live performance, twenty-six poems taken from the major collections published in his lifetime. Quite why he should have done this is a mystery, but he did. The poems were recorded after lunch on two Sundays in February 1980 by a professional sound engineer who had once worked for the BBC and then as a colleague of Larkin in the university library’s sound department. The two reels of tape made by John Weeks then sat in his garage until found by his son when sorting through his late father’s effects.

As one would expect, the sound quality is extremely high and, as ever, Larkin is a consummate performer of his own work. In many ways, on a first hearing, the performance is an exact repetition of the earlier ones. Here there is another myth to dispel: Larkin does not read in a monotone or in a lugubrious manner. He is alert and probing in his delivery, which is serious or comic by turns, and—as in the early recordings—remarkably relaxed and confident. As with the kind of poetry he wanted, echoing Wordsworth, this is a recording of “a man speaking to men.” And, as he began on The Less Deceived record, so he begins his final session here with a reading of “Lines on a Young Lady’s Photograph Album,” where he speaks directly to “a real girl in a real place,” and what the reader might understand as the speaker’s overly fussy quibbles and observations are tempered throughout by a voice as tender and considerate as the concluding verses. The selection ends with the conclusion of The Whitsun Weddings, “An Arundel Tomb,” a fitting valediction to the original volume, both recordings, and for the poet himself.

Far from being a “basement tapes,” this compact disc is definitely a greatest hits (“Lines on a Young Lady’s Photograph Album,” “Toads,” “Church Going,” “The Whitsun Weddings,” “At Grass,” “Mr. Bleaney,” “Toads Revisited,” and “The Building”) interspersed with some selections in a minor key (“Absences,” “Home Is So Sad”) and more acerbic ones, such as “The Old Fools” and “Vers de Société,” but none containing his infamous four-letter words. Indeed, the selection is a showcase for Larkin’s compassion and humanity. Unfortunately, the packaging is of a bootleg austerity, giving little information about the sessions, and the track listing is found only on the inside of the front cover, which has to be taken out of its jewel case to be read and contains two lapses (“1914” should read “MCMXIV” and “For Sydney Bechet” should read “For Sidney Bechet”). Nevertheless, despite the lack of attention in presentation, The Sunday Sessions is an enjoyable and definitive performance.