Philip Larkin is known and admired for his “poetry of lowered sights and patiently diminished expectations”—these words are Donald Davie’s—but his best work is often both narrower and more troubling than these terms suggest, as it concerns something like the unpronounceable loss of what we were never going to have, or a complicated refusal of what was not quite on offer. The logic of the wonderful “Poetry of Departures,” for example, suggests that any tale of escape from drab reality will be both overblown and alluring, because “We all hate home/And having to be there.” So why not leave: because the tales are phony? They are, but that is not the real obstacle. No, the tales themselves help us to “stay/Sober and industrious”; more subtly, escape itself is all about home and what’s wrong with it, a reverse framing of what we can’t leave. There isn’t anywhere else. “But I’d go today,” the poem ends,
Yes, swagger the nut-strewn roads,
Crouch in the fo’c’sle
Stubbly with goodness, if
It weren’t so artificial,
Such a deliberate step backwards
To create an object:
Books; china; a life
“Reprehensibly perfect” is itself perfect, a miming of criticism that is also a form of self-congratulation. So too are those careful, mock-hesitant line breaks at “if” and “a life.” Behind the poem we intuit a Philip Larkin who has just these feelings, or at least wouldn’t disavow them, and another Larkin who is broaching them, performing them, fully aware of the poem’s crisscrossing insights and illusions, watching the man who is so anxious not to be fooled caught in the business of fooling himself.
This is amazing writing, and comparable to what happens in Larkin’s seemingly open celebrations of failure, like the low-key short poem “As Bad as a Mile”:
Watching the shied core
Striking the basket, skidding across the floor,
Shows less and less of luck, and more and more
Of failure spreading back up the arm
Earlier and earlier, the unraised hand calm,
The apple unbitten in the palm.
Archie Burnett, in his notes to the new Complete Poems, reminds us of the proverb “A miss is as good as a mile,” and perhaps less helpfully recalls “the forbidden fruit, long supposed to have been an apple,” that caused such trouble in Eden. The interest of the poem lies in the imitation ineptness of the title—in the proverb “as good as” already means “as bad as”—and the self-pitying thought of the speaker, rewinding the film of his missed throw, finding in it all too easy an emblem. But the poem measures the self-pity even as it embraces it. The poise and ease of the rhymes and line divisions, the recurring “and…and” formulation, the art of the whole thing, suggest a triumphant shot into the basket, no sort of failure at all. Is the poem a joke on the speaker then? Certainly, but its attraction lies in the fact that we can’t know what else it is. What if, in your case or my case, the allegory should express a simple, unironical truth? Missing the basket with the apple core is not important, but it’s also not so different from the rest of your (or my) efforts in life—our marriages, say, or our jobs.