Philip Larkin. When he wasn’t telling you how your mum and dad were responsible for all your ills (the polite way of putting it) he was writing some gorgeous poems. And some rather wise words too. He dealt with the gritty reality and imperfection of existence. He was unsparing and often accused of being glum, despite bearing an uncanny resemblance to the comedian Eric Morecambe. Who rarely seemed so. Glum that is. But I still love Larkin’s words. For the man who wrote this:

“The fact remains that getting people right is not what living is all about anyway. It’s getting them wrong that is living, getting them wrong and wrong and wrong and then, on careful reconsideration, getting them wrong again. That’s how we know we’re alive: we’re wrong…”

Also wrote this:

“What will survive of us is love”

What greater last line of a poem exists? None that I know or can think of…

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