Aged 12 or 13 I copied several poems by Housman into a commonplace book I had been encouraged to keep. An English master had read several Housman poems to us, and I’ve been grateful ever since. For some years Housman was my favourite poet, till superseded by Byron (Don Juan especially) and Eliot. The melody or music of the verse no doubt appealed, the mood and message also: ‘We for a certainty are not the first/ Have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled/ Their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed/ Whatever brute and blackguard made the world.’ Just the stuff for an adolescent oppressed by an unsympathetic housemaster and twice-daily chapel.
Actually there came a time when the admiration faded, the gratitude grew weak. In youth one is too often too easily impressed by others’ opinions, granting them an authority they scarcely deserve. This was my experience when, in my first year at Cambridge, I read Orwell’s essay, Inside the Whale, and discovered that admiring Housman was a sad mistake.
Get Britain's best politics newsletters
Register to get The Spectator's insight and opinion straight to your inbox. You can then read two free articles each week.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in