Aubade

by Philip Larkin

Genres: Poetry, Philosophy, School, Classics

2 pages, ebook

First published January 1, 1980

About the author

Philip Arthur Larkin, CH, CBE, FRSL, was an English poet, novelist and jazz critic. He spent his working life as a university librarian and was offered the Poet Laureateship following the death of John Betjeman, but declined the post. Larkin is commonly regarded as one of the greatest English poets of the latter half of the twentieth century. He first came to prominence with the release of his third collection The Less Deceived in 1955. The Whitsun Weddings and High Windows followed in 1964 and 1974. In 2003 Larkin was chosen as "the nation's best-loved poet" in a survey by the Poetry Book Society, and in 2008 The Times named Larkin as the greatest post-war writer.

Larkin was born in city of Coventry, England, the only son and younger child of Sydney Larkin (1884–1948), city treasurer of Coventry, who came from Lichfield, and his wife, Eva Emily Day (1886–1977), of Epping. From 1930 to 1940 he was educated at King Henry VIII School in Coventry, and in October 1940, in the midst of the Second World War, went up to St John's College, Oxford, to read English language and literature. Having been rejected for military service because of his poor eyesight, Larkin was able, unlike many of his contemporaries, to follow the traditional full-length degree course, taking a first-class degree in 1943. Whilst at Oxford he met Kingsley Amis, who would become a lifelong friend and frequent correspondent. Shortly after graduating he was appointed municipal librarian at Wellington, Shropshire. In 1946, he became assistant librarian at University College, Leicester and in 1955 sub-librarian at Queen's University, Belfast. In March 1955, Larkin was appointed librarian at The University of Hull, a position he retained until his death.

Reviews

[Sarah · Rating 5 out of 5]

“Most things may never happen: this one will.”

[Bogdan Liviu · Rating 4 out of 5]

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.
Till then I see what’s really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
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.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can’t escape,
Yet can’t accept. 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.”

[Dilek Sayedahmed, PhD · Rating 5 out of 5]

I am here because of Claire Keegan.

Philip Larkin's poem "Aubade" is a profound meditation on mortality, existential dread, and the inevitability of death. Written in 1977, it stands as one of Larkin's most powerful and somber works.

Read it and thank me later. Or thank Keegan. And then read Keegan. And then double thank me later.

"Aubade" is not just about death—it’s about living with the knowledge of death. Larkin's refusal to offer solace or distraction forces readers to confront their own fears and beliefs about mortality, making the poem both unsettling and deeply moving. It reflects Larkin's characteristic blend of intellectual rigor, emotional honesty, and poetic mastery.


It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can’t escape,
Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go.

- "Aubade" by Philip Larkin.

[Emily · Rating 3 out of 5]

This is a very depressing poem about the fear of death and how it consumes this speaker.

"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."

[Samuel Herman · Rating 5 out of 5]

Short but bitter read. Got a tad emotional wild reading it. My thoughts are this: the author perfectly encapsulates what it means to be human, the experience of being human, in best worst way possible— we stuff our minds with distractions, to escape the dread of mortality. Overall, solid: 10/10

[Klaire · Rating 4 out of 5]

In my search for a consolation of death I’m reading all the writers I can who write about it (an endless list). This one doesn’t make me feel better but it’s real and that’s what I like about poetry at the end of the day.

[Angie Taylor · Rating 5 out of 5]

I loved this poem. What makes it magical is the first line in the last stanza, "Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape." This line exemplifies the importance of literal and figerative light and how they can make us stronger and be able to see things clearly.