Somewhere Becoming Rain
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Published by Picador on October 3 2019.
Dedicated to Claerwen James The jacket copy reads: "A love letter from one of the world’s best living writers to one of its most cherished poets. Clive James is a life-long admirer of the work of Philip Larkin. Somewhere Becoming Rain gathers all of James’s writing on this towering literary figure of the twentieth century, together with extra material now published for the first time. The greatness of Larkin’s poetry continues to be obscured by the opprobrium attaching to his personal life and his private opinions. James writes about Larkin’s poems, his novels, his jazz and literary criticism; he also considers the two major biographies, Larkin’s letters and even his portrayal on stage in order to chart the extreme and, he argues, largely misguided equivocations about Larkin’s reputation in the years since his death. Through this joyous and perceptive book, Larkin’s genius is delineated and celebrated. James argues that Larkin’s poems, adored by discriminating readers for over half a century, could only have been the product of his reticent, diffident, flawed, and all-too-human personality. Erudite and entertaining in equal measure, Somewhere Becoming Rain is a love letter from one of the world’s best living writers to one of its most cherished poets." |
"To read a major critic on a major poet is one of the great pleasures. Clive James’s passion for the work of Philip Larkin, his intense scrutiny which reveals an extraordinary empathy makes Somewhere Becoming Rain: Collected Writings on Philip Larkin an outstanding book."
Melvyn Bragg - New Statesman, Books of the Year 2019
"In Somewhere Becoming Rain, Clive James's collected essays on the poetry of Philip Larkin, the brilliance of James's analysis, his clear-sighted view of Larkin's solitude and humanity, and the fragile friendship between the two recorded in the book's final pages, provide a monument to human connection and isolation together. It's a perfect example of the "almost instinct" Larkin managed to prove "almost true" (hedging his bets to the end) — that what will survive of us is love."
Andrew Hunter Murray - The Guardian, February 2020
Melvyn Bragg - New Statesman, Books of the Year 2019
"In Somewhere Becoming Rain, Clive James's collected essays on the poetry of Philip Larkin, the brilliance of James's analysis, his clear-sighted view of Larkin's solitude and humanity, and the fragile friendship between the two recorded in the book's final pages, provide a monument to human connection and isolation together. It's a perfect example of the "almost instinct" Larkin managed to prove "almost true" (hedging his bets to the end) — that what will survive of us is love."
Andrew Hunter Murray - The Guardian, February 2020
Extracts
In whatever month of whatever year — anyway, about fifty years ago — Pete Atkin and I were doing what we thought would be our last tour of the country to promote our most recent album of songs, and one of the venues was the Student Union bar at Hull University. We didn’t know at the time that our songs, mainly thanks to YouTube, would one day be back in business, so the occasion could have been funereal. But the joint was jammed. Among those jamming it, I eventually noticed, was a tall figure looming at the back of the room. Before the end of the show, I’d realised it was Philip Larkin, and wondered why a deaf man should have come to hear us perform. Among the students he looked like a plain-clothes policeman among vagrants.
After the lights came up, I asked him why he was there, and he told me that although he couldn’t hear very well, he had been keen to find out what exactly I was doing. I think it was the idea of going public in such a blatant way that fascinated him, or perhaps appalled him. I can remember him saying that he didn’t pretend to be interested in any sort of popular music except pre-modern jazz, but he was intrigued that I thought poetry could be popular entertainment. He couldn’t imagine himself standing up to perform, while I couldn’t imagine myself not doing so.
Later on, I realised that his attendance at our show had been one of the great compliments I’d been paid in my life. At the time, I was too young, and too obtuse, to understand that he was a busy man, with every hour of every day spoken for. I knew he was famous, and thought, even then, that he was deservedly so. He was, as yet, far from writing and publishing Aubade, but there was something about him that was already saying goodbye.
I was left with the impression of a generous and courteous man. This impression was confirmed several times by letters which were kindly interested in their recipient’s welfare, even while he himself was ill, and, finally, dying. He was a gentleman, and his gentleness was something he was trying to offset when his poetry was savage.
This book is a gathering of all the times I felt compelled to register my admiration for his work. And even in the times between, his books were always within reach, especially when his detractors were closing in. The critical focus is, often now, so exclusively about his personal failings. I felt the need to add here, at the end, this reminiscence of his decency and politeness. Old-fashioned virtues indeed, as he would no doubt have been dryly aware.
After the lights came up, I asked him why he was there, and he told me that although he couldn’t hear very well, he had been keen to find out what exactly I was doing. I think it was the idea of going public in such a blatant way that fascinated him, or perhaps appalled him. I can remember him saying that he didn’t pretend to be interested in any sort of popular music except pre-modern jazz, but he was intrigued that I thought poetry could be popular entertainment. He couldn’t imagine himself standing up to perform, while I couldn’t imagine myself not doing so.
Later on, I realised that his attendance at our show had been one of the great compliments I’d been paid in my life. At the time, I was too young, and too obtuse, to understand that he was a busy man, with every hour of every day spoken for. I knew he was famous, and thought, even then, that he was deservedly so. He was, as yet, far from writing and publishing Aubade, but there was something about him that was already saying goodbye.
I was left with the impression of a generous and courteous man. This impression was confirmed several times by letters which were kindly interested in their recipient’s welfare, even while he himself was ill, and, finally, dying. He was a gentleman, and his gentleness was something he was trying to offset when his poetry was savage.
This book is a gathering of all the times I felt compelled to register my admiration for his work. And even in the times between, his books were always within reach, especially when his detractors were closing in. The critical focus is, often now, so exclusively about his personal failings. I felt the need to add here, at the end, this reminiscence of his decency and politeness. Old-fashioned virtues indeed, as he would no doubt have been dryly aware.