Posts Tagged ‘Andrew Motion’

Biographer Andrew Motion remembers Larkin: “he was 53 coming on 153…and he looked like God.”

Monday, June 13th, 2016


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Love at first sight. (Photo: Gerry Cambridge)

Sir Andrew Motion, former British poet laureate, read Philip Larkin‘s poetry in school and “immediately fell in love with him” – fell in love with him, despite obvious differences in their poetry and outlook. Eventually, Motion became an executor following Larkin’s death in 1985, and then his biographer. His 1993 Philip Larkin: A Writer’s Life won the Whitbread Prize for Biography.

The youthful enthusiasm that became a sort of vocation left him feeling “fascinated, privileged, lucky.” Motion, currently teaching at Johns Hopkins University, told the story to an audience at the West Chester Poetry Conference last week. One of the conference founders, California poet laureate Dana Gioia, was interlocutor for the discussion.

That early affinity was part of the reason why Motion accepted an appointment at the University of Hull in 1976, when he was only 24 – Larkin was the university librarian at Hull. But proximity didn’t guarantee access. “Bad luck,” a colleague told him, explaining that Larkin hated everyone at the university, especially those who teach English.  “You’ll never meet him,” he was warned.

The colleague was wrong. The encounter finally happened at the university pub. “There he was,” Motion recalled. “He looked very much like I was expecting – and not as I expected. Taller, bulkier, looming, funeral-suited.” Larkin was fatherly, downright biblical – “he was 53 coming on 153.”

“He was ten years younger than I am now, and he looked like God.”

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Gioia (Photo: Gerry Cambridge)

The god-like Larkin took a huge swig of beer and it went down the wrong way.  Motion began thumping him on the back. “That was an icebreaker,” he recalled. Here was another: when Motion mentioned that his father was a brewer, “Philip’s face absolutely lit up.”

While Larkin was seen as austere and forbidding, when he was among friends, “he was the most charming man, deeply funny.”

Motion was later asked to be one of Larkin’s literary executors. “I said I would do it but please would he not die,” he said. Motion also warned Larkin to discard anything he didn’t want preserved – “he was to understand I would not throw anything away.” Motion was as good as his word: he saved many of Larkin’s papers from imminent destruction after his death. (But not before his diaries were shredded, page by page.)

Motion was perfectly positioned, after the nine-year friendship, to become Larkin’s biographer. “When Philip died, his Number One girlfriend” – presumably Monica Jones – “was sitting in a chair, smoking herself to death, sozzled, with unkempt hair, and dropping ashes on the floor.” She picked up Larkin’s address book and threw it at him. “Everyone you need to talk to is there,” she said.


Reading his poetry (Photo: Anna Yin)

“He lived a very very discreet life,” said Motion. “He had lived his life in extraordinarily discrete compartments. We all do that to some extent.” All biography is a kind of invasion of the subject, however, and Motion had pangs of guilt.

“I had series of very peculiar dreams during period of writing about Larkin.” In one, Motion was speaking in an auditorium – and Larkin was sitting in the audience. Motion was remorseful in the dream, thinking, “Oh shit. I’d say none of this when he was still alive.” It was the guilt working through itself, he said.

Finally, Larkin appeared to him in a dream, with a collar made of hay. Motion interpreted that  “as a vision of him saying, ‘It’s okay.’”

larkinbookWhen Motion was named poet laureate, following the death of his predecessor, Ted Hughes, he redefined the role from a lifetime position to ten-year term. He said this allowed consideration of younger people for the office, and brought more vigor to the role.

His signal achievement was the creation of the Poetry Archive, a web-based library of English language poets reading their own work. It currently includes 400 recorded voices, and attracts 300,000 visitors a month. “I’m very proud, very pleased about the archive. It’s done a lot of good in the world,” he said.

It also refutes an argument that “come round like a sock in the washing machine” – that is, the claim that people don’t read poetry anymore. “We should probably cheer up,” he said. “More people listening to poetry than ever before, via things like archive.”

Postscript on 6/15: You may have observed that the earlier headline said “looked like a god.” I received this note from Gerry Cambridge (who took some of the photos above): “Cynthia great to meet you at West Chester. A wee observation: Andrew Motion actually said ‘… and looked like God’, not ‘…a god’. Which I think is funnier, if more risqué in some quarters.”

Stay tuned… more from Philadelphia, coming up soon!

Friday, June 10th, 2016

The Book Haven has been unusually silent these last few days. We’ve been at the West Chester Poetry Conference outside Philadelphia, attending workshops, panels, and readings with Dick Davis, Dana Gioia, Sir Andrew Motion, Sam Gwynn, and many, many others.

Humble Moi will be on a panel tomorrow morning to discuss Robert Conquest, the late great historian and poet, who died last year at Stanford.

Just to let you know we mean business, the photo below is taken from Thursday morning’s public conversation with Andrew Motion, former British poet laureate and biographer of Philip Larkin. Dana Gioia was his interlocutor (and no, he’s not as unhappy as he looks). Photograph taken by Gerry Cambridge.

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Dana Gioia ponders a remark from Sir Andrew Motion. (Photo: Gerry Cambridge)


Rowan Somerville: “There is nothing more English than bad sex”

Sunday, December 5th, 2010

We have a winner!

According to The Guardian’s Susanna Rustin, literary sex appears to be on the way out.  I say it’s about time.

The cause for the ruminations was this year’s Booker Prize and The Literary Review‘s Bad Sex award a few days ago.  Beating out nominee Tony Blair, novelist Rowan Somerville, author of The Shape of Her, took home the dubious prize with “one killer sentence using the image of a butterfly collector – ‘like a lepidopterist mounting a tough-skinned insect with a too blunt pin he screwed himself into her.'”

“He graciously accepted the honour, presented by film director and food critic Michael Winner, saying: ‘There is nothing more English than bad sex, so on behalf of the entire nation I would like to thank you.’

“The judges were also impressed by his nature notes, such as the pubic hair ‘like desert vegetation following an underground stream’, and the passage: ‘He unbuttoned the front of her shirt and pulled it to the side so that her breast was uncovered, her nipple poking out, upturned like the nose of the loveliest nocturnal animal, sniffing the night. He took it between his lips and sucked the salt from her.'”

If you sense a sort of groping for effect (pun actually not intended), join the club. I think that’s the danger of sex scenes in novels.  They try too hard. I, personally, would have awarded this line alone from Somerville:  “She released his hair from her fingers and twisted onto her belly like a fish flipping itself, her movement so brusque his chin bounced off her head.”

At best, they make sex sound like hard, hard work.  At worst, they come across as parody.  Or simply very, very gross.  For grossity, this bad sex passage from The Literary Review‘s potpourri is enough to chase anyone into celibacy:

It felt to him as if he were tending a delicate weeping wound, and as he probed it with his tongue he heard her moan quietly. Excited by the oysterish intricacy of her he sucked and licked the salty folds until they became sweet …  (Anthony Quinn, The Rescue Man)


Yesterday's hot is today's kitsch

The truth is, nothing dates faster than sex – or rather, its expression.  Look at the cutesie or “exotic” nude postcards of the 1920s, or the squeaky clean coyness and plastic artificiality of G.I. pinup girls in World War II.  I have a feeling all these hot, hot, groaning-and-panting sex scenes in our movies and books are going to cause a lot of yucks for a future generation.  Just like we attach funny captions to those 1920s postcards and laugh at yesterday’s turn-on.  Just like the Bad Sex contestants give us a giggle now.

The contest appears to have had a chilling effect on the Booker prizes, the British equivalent of the Pulitzer:  ‘What was really striking, and we talked about it all the time in the meetings, was how little sex there was,” says biographer Frances Wilson, one of this year’s  judges.

“I thought I was going to have to steel myself to read a lot of sex stuff,” says the chairman of judges, Andrew Motion, “and about halfway through I realised that it wasn’t happening.”

Naturally, prudery is blamed, rather than a resurgence of good taste:

“Adam Thirlwell, whose debut novel, Politics, was a startlingly explicit examination of bedroom manners, believes we are living through ‘a very conservative era’ in literary terms. …

He points out that there is no such thing in a novel as a ‘scene’, and that even by thinking in terms of ‘sex scenes’, both readers and writers are showing the influence of cinema, in which sex is depicted according to a narrow vocabulary bearing the taint of pornography, which is all about visual stimulation and bears little relationship to the questions about language, and the representation of interiority, that novelists should be worrying about.”

Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?

They ignore something else:  I, for one, as a reader am not that terribly curious about the author’s idea of what his or her characters do behind closed doors.  I actually have a pretty vivid imagination.  Most of the time, I feel that the author is indulging his own fantasies, and, while writing, is … how can I put this delicately?

“Australian novelist Christos Tsiolkas goes further, saying that the attacks by some critics on his novel The Slap as being vulgar or pornographic ‘bemuse me as they seem to ignore how much of sexual imagination, particularly male sexual imagination, is now experienced through pornography itself.'”

And that’s what concerns me, as a human being.  I agree with René Girard that we are, to a much larger degree than generally supposed, mimetic creatures.  The one place that had been fairly insulated from imitation was sex — when the bedroom door closed, what happened within remained there. Thanks to our inundation in sex in movies, billboards, advertising, books, people are haunted by the idea that there is something that they are not getting, some fun others are having that they are not, something that some sex counselor, newspaper article, or survey told them they should be doing or feeling.  The one corner for a man (or woman’s) inimitable stamp has now entered the world of the media, marketing, and “branding.”

I don’t find myself agreeing with Naomi Wolf all that often, but this passage in her “The Porn Myth” had something worth pondering, as she recalled a conversation she had with a student at Northwestern, after she had talked about the effect of porn on relationships.

“Why have sex right away?” a boy with tousled hair and Bambi eyes was explaining. “Things are always a little tense and uncomfortable when you just start seeing someone,” he said. “I prefer to have sex right away just to get it over with. You know it’s going to happen anyway, and it gets rid of the tension.”“Isn’t the tension kind of fun?” I asked. “Doesn’t that also get rid of the mystery?”

“Mystery?” He looked at me blankly. And then, without hesitating, he replied: “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sex has no mystery.”