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The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said.

Philip Larkin

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Philip Larkin
Age: 63 †
Born: 1922
Born: August 9
Died: 1985
Died: December 2
Critic
Journalist
Librarian
Music Critic
Music Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Coventry
England
UK
Philip Arthur Larkin
Like
Thresh
Leafs
Leaf
Trees
Coming
Tree
Almost
Something

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Give me a thrill, says the reader, Give me a kick I don't care how you succeed, or What subject you pick.
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Uncontradicting solitude Supports me on its giant palm And like a sea-anemone Or simple snail, there cautiously Unfolds, emerges, what I am.
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One of the sadder things, I think, Is how our birthdays slowly sink: Presents and parties disappear, The cards grow fewer year by year, Till, when one reaches sixty-five, How many care we're still alive?
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The breath that sharpens life is life itself.
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This is the first thing I have understood: Time is the echo of an axe within a wood.
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I am beginning to think of the human imagination as a fruit machine on which victories are rare and separated by much vain expense, and represent a rare alignment of mental and spiritual qualities that normally are quite at odds.
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Get stewed:Books are a load of crap.
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I have wished you something None of the others would.
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Joy Is for the simple or the great to feel, Neither of which we are.
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My age fallen away like white swaddling Floats in the middle distance, becomes An inhabited cloud.
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Sexual intercourse began in 1963 ... / Between the end of the Chatterley ban/ and the Beatles first LP
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Things are tougher than we are, just As earth will always respond However we mess it about.
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I have no enemies. But my friends don't like me.
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In everyone there sleeps. A sense of life lived according to love. To some it means the difference they could make. By loving others, but across most it sweeps. As all they might have done had they been loved. That nothing cures.
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I think that at the bottom of all art lies the impulse to preserve.
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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.
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I am awakened each dawn Increasingly to fear.
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Here no elsewhere underwrites my existence.
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The chromatic scale is what you use to give the effect of drinking a quinine martini and having an enema simultaneously.
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To start at a new place is always to feel incompetent & unwanted.
Philip Larkin