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Last week, writing about my visit to the home of the poet Wendy Cope, I came across an article that she wrote in July for The Telegraph, entitled Why I won’t stop reading Philip Larkin (it’s worth noting that she probably didn’t write this simplistic headline).
It’s behind a paywall, and I realise that not everybody has a subscription to The Telegraph, or indeed a former colleague’s login details that they were given five years ago and have quietly continued to use ever since. I think the piece is worth reading, not least because Wendy is qualified to discuss Larkin’s poetry in a much more intelligent way than most commentators, but in case you can’t, I’ll just say it’s one of the many articles that have been written on the contrast between his often unpleasant personality and his often beautiful work.
I haven’t read Larkin’s Selected Letters, which is the book that started this conversation when it was published in 1993, eight years after his death. Googling ‘Philip Larkin racism’, I found that most articles that have been written about him recently have been weirdly, or perhaps revealingly, reluctant to spell out exactly why he’s considered a racist. It took me a few minutes to find this piece by the Socialist Worker, which includes quotes from Larkin about ‘black scum’ and ‘lower class bastards’ (apparently he wasn’t keen on working class people either) – and he said worse things than that. It’s grim reading, but at least it doesn’t sugarcoat him. He was also vile about women, by the way.
This was already on my mind, and then I saw that a new Amazon Books poll of 2000 Brits has put Larkin at number twenty in a list of the UK’s best ever authors. Like many in this country, I studied Larkin’s book The Whitsun Weddings at A-level English Literature when I was 16 or 17, and I really loved it – I still find many of his poems very moving. So I want to write about this complicated question of art and artists this week, even though it means a newsletter that’s really more about reading than writing.
When the question comes up of whether we have to throw out the great art along with the unpleasant artist who created it, I now always think of the 2019 documentary Leaving Neverland, which focused on Wade Robson and James Safechuck, survivors of childhood sexual assault by Michael Jackson. (That’s what they allege, and their accounts are extremely convincing. I believe them.)
When the film came out, there was a lot of debate over whether acknowledging that Jackson did horrific things would have to mean no longer listening to his music. At one point this question was put to Robson, and he said, ‘That’s not really my concern. That’s everybody’s individual journey. If I have any hope it’s just that we question in general who it is that we’re worshipping and why. So it’s beyond Michael.’
His response really clarified things for me: there are more important questions to ask. My sense was that he doesn’t much care whether you’re dancing to Billie Jean at a wedding – what he cares about is why a man was given the power and opportunity to abuse children, with a whole machine of adults around him choosing to look the other way.
Similarly, Larkin’s views were disgusting and ignorant and the way he expressed them was hateful and harmful. What’s important, I think, is to talk about that when we talk about his poetry, which showed a humanity and sensitivity that he didn’t seem to extend beyond the page. What’s important is to be alert to the presence – even now – of those beliefs in our culture and to act against them in the moment. What’s important is to interrogate the complicated causes of those views and how we can prevent kids from absorbing them. I’m not sure it makes any material difference to anyone if I swear off reading The Whitsun Weddings. It feels like the wrong conversation to have.
Where I feel it’s more complicated is when you’re dealing with living artists who still benefit from sales of their work. I wouldn’t put any money in the singer Chris Brown’s pocket, for example, because he has a long history of violence towards women; I don’t believe he should be given awards, either.
As for the artists who’ve died, a friend asked recently if I would go and see MJ the Musical, which won four Tony Awards on Broadway. No, I won’t, because I hear it’s biographical and yet it doesn’t touch on the abuse allegations. I think it’s in poor taste to celebrate him in that selective way, when there are still men in the world who were victims of that abuse, particularly when his opportunity to hurt them was directly linked to his success as an artist. I like Billie Jean as much as anyone, but no.
I don’t think it’s about rejecting the work. If you’re going to have a principle on this stuff, make it your principle that you’ll donate money to an anti-racist organisation or that you’ll call out inappropriate uses of power – not that you’ll burn your books and switch off the radio. That said, sometimes revelations about an artist’s personal life just leech away your enjoyment of their work. If I do eventually read Selected Letters one day, maybe it will spoil the emotional connection I feel with Home is so sad or Talking in bed. That’s OK, I think. We evolve.
I’d love to know what you think. Have you noticed your enjoyment of a writer’s work fading as you’ve learnt more about their personal life? Do you have qualms about separating the two? Do you think I’m missing the point altogether?
The Creative Hour was lovely on Sunday, and got me out of a rut – thank you to everyone who joined, and I hope your respective memoirs, articles, novels, short stories and comics are going well. The next one will be on Sunday 11 December at 5pm GMT – I look forward to seeing you then.
Meanwhile, I’ll be back next Thursday with a newsletter that I promise will be more squarely about writing. Good luck with your work this week!
I agree with one of the Jackson victims (alleged, yes, but I believe he did it) that this is an individual journey. I actually don't know a lot about the personal lives of the writers I enjoy but I think your post speaks to a much larger cultural phenomenon at the moment and I'm glad to see that you appear to be advocating some nuance and discretion.
I have a hard time getting into the works of HP Lovecraft for reasons that have nothing to do with his well-known racism, but I can appreciate his creativity and the fact that we owe to him pretty much an entire subgenre of horror. I adore the work of Bret Easton Ellis even though I find some of his thoughts about Kanye West and Donald Trump naive at best (but I don't think he's a misogynist). And I was too old for Harry Potter and never finished the books anyway so Rowling has not made or ruined me in any sense. And let's leave aside comedians, movie stars, athletes, and musicians.
What I can't tolerate is anyone who tells me that I must stop reading (or watching or enjoying) someone who has either done a heinous thing or, more likely, has merely been accused of doing a heinous thing. This goes double for a writer who merely holds an unpopular view but hasn't actually done or even been accused of a crime. That said, there are certain famous people, still living, whose work I can no longer appreciate. The point is that these are decisions I make for myself.
An excellent newsletter, and really thoughtful, thought-provoking comments too. I wondered after watching the MJ documentary, and believing his victims, whether his music would be ruined for me. I sometimes still listen to it - it feels different now. And I'm always a little surprised when he gets played on the radio.
I think sometimes, it depends what you care about in the artist's work. If it's important to their work that they be broadly decent people, finding out that they did bad things can really affect how you feel about it. This sounds facetious but isn't meant to be - I think Bob Dylan is kind of an arse, but his music doesn't pretend to be otherwise, so it doesn't affect my enjoyment. If I ever found out about an incontrovertible bad thing about Bruce Springsteen (won't happen), it would be a different matter, because his music is about decency and kindness.