AUBADE LARKIN PDF

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night. Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare. In time the curtain-edges will grow light. Arid interrogation: yet the dread Of dying, and being dead, Flashes afresh to hold and horrify. The mind blanks at the glare.

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I work all day, and get half-drunk at night. Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare. In time the curtain-edges will grow light. Arid interrogation: yet the dread Of dying, and being dead, Flashes afresh to hold and horrify. The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse —The good not done, the love not given, time Torn off unused—nor wretchedly because An only life can take so long to climb Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never; But at the total emptiness for ever, The 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. This is a special way of being afraid No trick dispels.

Religion used to try, That vast moth-eaten musical brocade Created to pretend we never die, And specious stuff that says No rational being Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing That this is what we fear—no sight, no sound, No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with, Nothing to love or link with, The anaesthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision, A small unfocused blur, a standing chill That slows each impulse down to indecision. Most things may never happen: this one will, And realisation of it rages out In furnace-fear when we are caught without People or drink.

Courage is no good: It means not scaring others. Being brave Lets no one off the grave. Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape. One side will have to go. Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring Intricate rented world begins to rouse.

The sky is white as clay, with no sun. Work has to be done. Postmen like doctors go from house to house. Philip Larkin, "Aubade" from Collected Poems. Reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber, Ltd.

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A Short Analysis of Philip Larkin’s ‘Aubade’

Sure enough, we start out "waking at four to soundless dark. Done that. In the pre-dawn darkness, the speaker contemplates his own death—the fact that each day brings him closer to the end. In the end, dawn finally comes thank goodness.

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Monday, 21 December Aubade, by Philip Larkin Philip Larkin was undoubtedly one of the greatest English poets of the late 20th century. He is generally regarded as a pessimist, who tackled issues of loneliness, old age and death head-on and offered few words of comfort. However, this is probably an over-simplification in that Larkin was, above all, a realist who offered an uncompromising and honest view of the world as he saw it, tough-mindedly and without self-delusion. The poem I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.

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