“How are you keeping then? ”, she wrote, br “still going on O.K.? Me, br I’m at college now, doing English lit. br This term it’s Philip Larkin — br I think he’s brilliant, br a bit depressive, but br he’s really written some good stuff — br have you heard of him? ” br Into my mind there came that long br lugubrious clean-shaven face br that always smelled of after-shave, br those heavy black-rimmed spectacles, br the hearing aid that always whistled, br that stylish belted macintosh he wore, br and his spacious room with its sprawling desk br on which incongruously sat br an aspidistra and a photograph br of Guy, the gorilla, next to where br his secretary, Betty, placed the tray br of Earl Grey tea in porcelain cups, br but most of all did I recall br his voice — its deep, slow, br rich cultured tones. So great a loss, br so kind a man and in his way br so modest too. Upon his small br neat white gravestone you’ll find br no flowery epitaph, just: br “Philip Larkin 1922–1985 writer.” br He feared death — its endless emptiness, br but don’t we all, deep down? br I’ll not forget his generous friendly smile br last time we met just a little while br before he died. We were not close, br but yet, he told me once that he’d dreamt of me br and I too, when he was dead, once dreamt of him, br so I may justly say to you, br “It’s true, I’ve heard of him”.