He had a phobia about commitment in any of its manifestations. He was a total miser, accepting hospitality but never returning it - the favoured few might get a lettuce sandwich (‘a speciality’). ‘To think of myself owning furniture gives me a sort of sinking feeling,’ he confessed. As Monica Jones, his chief paramour, told Motion: ‘I loved him, but I couldn’t make him love me enough.’ What I found shocking, however, revisiting this ample biography, is Larkin’s breathtakingly cruel treatment of his many girlfriends. When he died, the initial tributes and obituaries were troubled by the revelation of Larkin’s fondness for pornography, his swearing and reactionary political views - as if great writers should all be right-on Guardian readers. He drew out an exquisite poignancy, painting portraits of an abiding yet vanishing Englishness. Reading the ample biography, Larkin’s breathtakingly cruel treatment of his many girlfriends was shocking.
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