Philip Larkin Quotes

Far too many relied on the classic formula of a beginning, a muddle, and an end.

That vast moth-eaten musical brocade Created to pretend we never die.

That 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.

And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.

You can’t put off being young until you retire, And however you bank your screw, the money you save Won’t in the end buy you more than a shave.

I should never call myself a book lover, any more than a people lover: it all depends what’s inside them.

They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you.

Sexual intercourse began In nineteen sixty-three (Which was rather late for me)— Between the end of the Chatterly ban And the Beatles’ first LP.

I thought of London spread out in the sun, Its postal districts packed like squares of wheat.

Life is first boredom, then fear.

Give me your arm, old toad; Help me down Cemetery Road.

The widening river’s slow presence, The piled gold clouds, the shining gull-marked mud, Gathers to the surprise of a large town: Here domes and statues, spires and cranes cluster Beside grain-scattered streets, barge-crowded water, And residents from raw estates.

Get stewed: Books are a load of crap.

Never such innocence, Never before or since, As changed itself to past Without a word—the men Leaving the gardens tidy, The thousands of marriages Lasting a little while longer: Never such innocence again.

Time has transfigured them into Untruth. The stone fidelity They hardly meant has come to be Their final blazon, and to prove Our almost-instinct almost true: What will survive of us is love.

Marrying left your maiden name disused.

Why should I let the toad work Squat on my life? Can’t I use my wit as a pitchfork And drive the brute off? Six days of the week it soils With its sickening poison—Just for paying a few bills! That’s out of proportion.

A serious house on serious earth it is, In whose blent air all our compulsions meet, Are recognised, and robed as destinies.

Hatless, I take off My cycle-clips in awkward reverence.

On me your voice falls as they say love should, Like an enormous yes.