Philip Larkin

We have another good book review of the new James Booth biography of the poet Philip Larkin. In this excerpt, we get another account of how Larkin was not served very well by the first wave of biographies that followed his death. News flash: poets are a little perverted, if they are any good anyway.

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Shelby Foote

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INTERVIEWER

I remember Saul Bellow once said, “You anoint yourself as a writer.”

FOOTE

That’s right. One of the most remarkable jobs of becoming a writer I ever heard of was done by one of my favorite writers, Robert Browning. Browning decided at the age of fourteen, I think, out of the clear blue sky, to become a writer. His father had books all over the house anyway. He said, If I’m going to be a writer, there’s certainly one thing I must do, and then he proceeded to memorize Johnson’s Dictionary—both volumes, cover to cover. He has, next to Shakespeare, the largest vocabulary of any English writer. Now that’s preparation.

-- Shelby Foote at The Paris Review

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Grocery Day

It's almost six o'clock in the evening, and I am only now ready to begin reading my "Lathe of Heaven". Grocery day always buries my routine, but never more than today. One reason is that PolitiCartoons is a little more active today, after the Islamist slaughter of French cartoonists in the Charlie Hebdo affair, so that it is all I can do to break to the surface and get above water in my blogging rounds. And, as it so happens, it is now about time for dinner.

During our travels together to the grocery stores, I was able to pick up a couple of interesting pieces of intel from Pop. I outright asked him how long is Lorie going to stay. It has been two weeks already. Is it going to be months? Will the cast have to come off her leg first? No. He said that she will try to resume her home life next week, maybe Monday, if the weather isn't awful. This sounds like it might be close to the truth, but maybe it's just something that I want to hear. We'll see soon enough.

Then there is something about Jack. Pop dropped this dime on his own unconsciously, just talking to himself aloud. We were on our way back home from H. E. B., and as we drove past the duck pond, Pop wondered aloud whether that was Jack. It was a pizza delivery car. So, Jack apparently did not land that managerial position at that sandwich shop, after all. I was not shocked. I wish I did not feel such a surge of relief, because I am 50, not 15, and I know that it would be better all around if Jack and his family enjoyed more economic strength. I asked Pop what happened. He quickly gets vague and noncommittal. I cannot tell if he is hiding some facts that might be embarrassing to Jack, or if he is just mumbling over his own genuine ignorance. The most he says is that there was apparently a disagreement among the other managers and higher-ups about what to do with Jack. I can only make wild guesses, of course, but I imagine that Jack's lack of education credentials did hurt him again, failing to even score a basic high school diploma, as I suppose that being a nice-looking white guy is not quite as all-powerful as I have sometimes fancied, though it is certainly no handicap - you cannot beat having a pretty wife. My imagination continues to fill out the scene. After being turned down for that managerial position, Jack's pride would not let him stick around. Pop naturally talks up Jack's new job, saying that he recently made a hundred dollars in tips in one night. Parties and such can be good business, he says. Though, he is happily excluding the wear and tear on the car, which is not an inexpensive matter, and then there is the matter of needing to break even on just the cost of gas - it is a losing job. In any case, Jack is driving for Papa John's. You know, since he does not have to really deal that much with other workers and managers, it occurs to me that he might be able to stick with this job. Maybe he even likes it.

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep

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Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

-- "Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep" (1932) by Mary Elizabeth Frye

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