Realization
His first phase of sheer puzzlement had gone. What possessed him now was a shuddering rage at himself and at all the rest of them; he plunged into the steaming interior filled with the hysterical determination of a man who in sheer fury probes an agonizing wound.
[...]
He looked along the alcoves, each with its light, and loneliness began to displace his rage. Loneliness made any emotion he suffered impotent. No feeling he had could possibly affect anyone else.
[...]
He looked along the alcoves, each with its light, and loneliness began to displace his rage. Loneliness made any emotion he suffered impotent. No feeling he had could possibly affect anyone else.
Philip Larkin, Jill
Last week I started rereading this novel. The first time was three years ago and I loved it, but not enjoyed it so much. Now it's different, I've been laughing a lot, but some parts of it have also made me very sad. Maybe you have to belong to the literary realm to understand how it feels. Oh, no, it's not an arrogant fit, what I mean is that a novel like this touches the fragility and complexity of the literary beings, the things that many people out there dislike or don't understand.
The quotation... This is Larkin at his best. Cutting, cruel, painfully introspective. His diction in this passage leaves me lying on the floor because in spite of the sarcastic and humorous moments all along the novel, right here you just can't laugh. I guess Larkin knew all too well that this part was not meant to be laughed at; the realization of your being a stupid fool cannot be pleasant, or expressed in kind, self-indulgent terms. I don't know about your experience, but I think Larkin plays with my reason and feelings.
I've never liked rereading my favourite books because I'm afraid the texts won't cause the same impression on me as the first time. Now I'm doing it and what I can say is that this book is going to stay carved into my mind.
I am torn and it's myself alone, like John Kempt. And, just as happens with him, my feelings cannot affect anyone else.
Have you ever felt like this?
*I'm ok, I'm ok, I'm ok.
*I decided to leave Sylvia Plath for a better and less weak mood of mine. Mmm, I thought reading Larkin would help, but no, I didn't remember this sadness. I only remembered the amusing parts.
*Gosh, between Saturday and Monday I started five posts that were left as drafts. I couldn't finish most of them, and the ones I managed to finish, well, you see, I didn't dare publish. It was not a matter of time, it was something else, but I don't have a name for it.
The quotation... This is Larkin at his best. Cutting, cruel, painfully introspective. His diction in this passage leaves me lying on the floor because in spite of the sarcastic and humorous moments all along the novel, right here you just can't laugh. I guess Larkin knew all too well that this part was not meant to be laughed at; the realization of your being a stupid fool cannot be pleasant, or expressed in kind, self-indulgent terms. I don't know about your experience, but I think Larkin plays with my reason and feelings.
I've never liked rereading my favourite books because I'm afraid the texts won't cause the same impression on me as the first time. Now I'm doing it and what I can say is that this book is going to stay carved into my mind.
I am torn and it's myself alone, like John Kempt. And, just as happens with him, my feelings cannot affect anyone else.
Have you ever felt like this?
*I'm ok, I'm ok, I'm ok.
*I decided to leave Sylvia Plath for a better and less weak mood of mine. Mmm, I thought reading Larkin would help, but no, I didn't remember this sadness. I only remembered the amusing parts.
*Gosh, between Saturday and Monday I started five posts that were left as drafts. I couldn't finish most of them, and the ones I managed to finish, well, you see, I didn't dare publish. It was not a matter of time, it was something else, but I don't have a name for it.
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