Without
thinking much about it, I assumed the windows in “High Windows” were the sort
you see in churches, tall and narrow like gun ports, well above the heads of
worshippers. Some are made of stained glass; others, transparent and colorless.
Seated in a pew, you see only sky, foliage or a tall adjoining building. Such high
windows admit light and limit vision, perhaps with the intention of minimizing
distraction and focusing attention on the service within.
Larkin wasn’t
thinking of church windows. For most of his life he occupied rooms at the tops
of houses. He dreaded living on the ground floor. At Hull, he lived in a
university flat for almost eighteen years – the top flat. There he wrote most
of The Whitsun Weddings (1964) and all of High
Windows (1974). But he may not have
been thinking at all about top-floor windows. In his notes to The Complete Poems (2012), Archie
Burnett suggests Larkin’s “high windows” are “a purely mental image, rather
than a verbal reality.” The final stanza, with its unexpected logical hinge,
seems to substantiate this:
“Rather than
words comes the thought of high windows:
The
sun-comprehending glass,
And beyond
it, the deep blue air, that shows
Nothing, and
is nowhere, and is endless.”
A Pascalian
blank, coldly frightening, as in “Ambulances”: “And sense the solving emptiness
/ That lies just under all we do, / And for a second get it whole, / So
permanent and blank and true.” Larkin punctures another illusion. He articulates what we merely push aside. All is
vanity. Such coldness isn’t for everyone. In a 1981 interview Larkin says the
ending of “High Windows” shows a desire" to get away from it all,” and goes on:
“It’s a true
poem. One longs for infinity and absence, the beauty of somewhere you’re not.
It shows humanity as a series of oppressions, and one wants to be somewhere
where there’s neither oppressed nor oppressor, just freedom. It may not be very
articulate.”
Larkin
finished writing “High Windows” on this date, Feb. 12, in 1967.
1 comment:
...then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
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