Larkin was a hospitable writer, but not a hospitable man. That's the great fear, the leering deformed life, but also the great artist. Jamie suggests this is an abacovian theme too. You mean some sort of trade-off between being a certain sort of person and being a certainsort of writer? It's the Yatesian paradox, isn't it? The perfection of the life or the perfection of the art? Yeah, but that comes in a sort of four-line poem. He doesn't argue it. He just throws it up in the air. And it was very literal-minded of Larkin to take it as a slogan for how

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