THE BUILDING

Philip Arthur Larkin (9 August 1922 – 2 December 1985) was an English poet, novelist, and librarian. His first book of poetry, The North Ship, was published in 1945, followed by two novels, Jill (1946) and A Girl in Winter (1947), and he came to prominence in 1955 with the publication of his second collection of poems, The Less Deceived, followed by The Whitsun Weddings (1964) and High Windows (1974). He contributed to The Daily Telegraph as its jazz critic from 1961 to 1971, articles gathered in All What Jazz: A Record Diary 1961–71 (1985), and he edited The Oxford Book of Twentieth Century English Verse (1973).^[1] His many honours include the Queen's Gold Medal for Poetry.^[2] He was offered, but declined, the position of Poet Laureate in 1984, following the death of Sir John Betjeman.

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THEME

Death
Progress in the field of health services
Life as an illusion
Lack of faith in religion

‘The Building’ is a powerful poem that although seems ambiguous at first, is eventually thought provoking. The poem describes a building which is assumed to be as a hospital even though we are not overtly told. Toward the end, Larkin meditates upon ideas of sickness, death as well as spirituality and religion in an attempt to make sense of the former two while maintaining a somewhat flippant and ironic tone throughout.

The building seems ‘higher than the handsomest hotel’; sarcastically described as typical of Larkin. Glass windows shine like a ‘lucent comb’ like a beckoning beacon of light, surrounded by criss-crossing streets. At the entrance arrive vehicles that are ‘not taxis’, which can be assumed to be ambulances. The building represents technological and medical advancement ‘like a great sigh out of the last century’. However, sight can be deceiving while within lingers a ‘frightening smell’.

Like at ‘an airport lounge’, people read paperbacks, ‘ripped mags’, drink tea yet ‘tamely sit’ for a kind of arrival that seems less exciting than travel. Ordinary people have come for check-ups in ‘outdoor clothes and half-filled shopping bags’ with obvious intentions of doing other more important things. Yet they are ‘restless and resigned’ for the possibility of receiving bad news about their health. The busy nurses seem ominous, coming every few minutes to ‘fetch someone away’, during which time people are fidgety and ‘curiously neutral’.

The building is a place of ‘humans’ in which people lose individualities and form a homogeneous group of patients no matter what age. They are reduced to faceless numbers all in fear of sudden ‘abeyance’, ‘the end of choice’ and ‘the last of hope’; death the great leveller. Some come to ‘confess that something has gone wrong’ in reply to their doctors who reveal an ‘error of a serious sort’ in their health. However, they are just one of several people to endure illness. To house this inexhaustible supply of humans, so ‘much money’ goes into nurturing the building so that it may be ‘tall’ with ‘many floors’ and staff working ungodly hours. Yet, it is morbid.

People look around at others, wondering if they too will be wheeled off down a corridor of endless rooms ‘harder to return from’. The fear of death is a ‘new thing held in common’ that suppresses all hopes and makes them quiet. Outside lies the normal world – streets, pipes, traffic, children playing games, a car park and freedom. A ‘locked church’ kills any hope of divine intervention. The hospital could very well be a prison and perhaps that is why Larkin ambiguously calls it a building.

The building strips people of their identity and dresses them in ‘washed-to-rags ward clothes’. Now the world seems like the false illusion of a ‘touching dream’ – its loves and chances ‘unreal’. ‘Self-protecting ignorance congeal’ the true sense of death and harsh realities realised when ‘in these corridors’. Some may evade death and leave early but ‘others not knowing it’ would have come to join the non-discriminatory ‘unseen congregations whose white rows lie set apart’.

The building’s purpose is to evoke the realisation of a ‘clean sliced cliff’ from which we shall all inevitably fall from. We may use flowers, prayers, confessions to ‘transcend the thought of dying’ but these efforts are ‘wasteful, weak, propitiatory’ unless of course the supernatural or God contravenes. Until then, the nurse beckons us like a grim reaper, summoning us to die. She offers no hope of faint maternal comfort; an idea which would match well with how we were brought into the world. Yet, the nurse approaches with frigidity; she’s doing her job, it’s a chore these days considering the ungodly hours she has to work. Nothing can placate death; it is a guarantee. Perhaps the only choice is to come to terms with this phenomenon until the perception of its inescapability morphs into an acceptance of its inevitability.

POEM

Higher than the handsomest hotel

The lucent comb shows up for miles, but see,

All round it close-ribbed streets rise and fall

Like a great sigh out of the last century.

The porters are scruffy; what keep drawing up

At the entrance are not taxis; and in the hall

As well as creepers hangs a frightening smell.

There are paperbacks, and tea at so much a cup,

Like an airport lounge, but those who tamely sit

On rows of steel chairs turning the ripped mags

Haven't come far. More like a local bus.

These outdoor clothes and half-filled shopping-bags

And faces restless and resigned, although

Every few minutes comes a kind of nurse

To fetch someone away: the rest refit

Cups back to saucers, cough, or glance below

Seats for dropped gloves or cards. Humans, caught

On ground curiously neutral, homes and names

Suddenly in abeyance; some are young,

Some old, but most at that vague age that claims

The end of choice, the last of hope; and all

Here to confess that something has gone wrong.

It must be error of a serious sort,

For see how many floors it needs, how tall

It's grown by now, and how much money goes

In trying to correct it. See the time,

Half-past eleven on a working day,

And these picked out of it; see, as they climb

To their appointed levels, how their eyes

Go to each other, guessing; on the way

Someone's wheeled past, in washed-to-rags ward clothes:

They see him, too. They're quiet. To realise

This new thing held in common makes them quiet,

For past these doors are rooms, and rooms past those,

And more rooms yet, each one further off

And harder to return from; and who knows

Which he will see, and when? For the moment, wait,

Look down at the yard. Outside seems old enough:

Red brick, lagged pipes, and someone walking by it

Out to the car park, free. Then, past the gate,

Traffic; a locked church; short terraced streets

Where kids chalk games, and girls with hair-dos fetch

Their separates from the cleaners - O world,

Your loves, your chances, are beyond the stretch

Of any hand from here! And so, unreal

A touching dream to which we all are lulled

But wake from separately. In it, conceits

And self-protecting ignorance congeal

To carry life, collapsing only when

Called to these corridors (for now once more

The nurse beckons -). Each gets up and goes

At last. Some will be out by lunch, or four;

Others, not knowing it, have come to join

The unseen congregations whose white rows

Lie set apart above - women, men;

Old, young; crude facets of the only coin

This place accepts. All know they are going to die.

Not yet, perhaps not here, but in the end,

And somewhere like this. That is what it means,

This clean-sliced cliff; a struggle to transcend

The thought of dying, for unless its powers

Outbuild cathedrals nothing contravenes

The coming dark, though crowds each evening try

With wasteful, weak, propitiatory flowers.

STANZA WISE ANALYSIS

Stanza 1

In the opening stanza of the poem, we find Larkin sarcastically describing the building, and calling it ‘the handsomest hotel’. This comparison of the building by the poet shows that the building, assumed as hospital, is not only higher but also handsomest in appearance.

The use of term ‘handsomest’ in the first verse shows that he is going to define the building in masculine form, but the term ‘building’ indicates its femininity.

Defining the handsomeness of the building, Larkin says that the glass windows are shining as if a ‘lucent comb’, but it is enclosed by criss-crossing streets (close-ribbed streets). He says the vehicles arriving at the entrance gate of the building are ‘not taxis’ rather they are ambulances. The building suggests medical advancement when the poet says: ‘like a great sigh out of the last century’, but that sigh could be deceptive as there lingers a ‘frightening smell’ within.

Stanza 2

After describing the building from outside, the poet starts comparing its inner condition to ‘an airport lounge’ where people can generally be seen reading the paperbacks, drinking tea, ‘ripped mags’ and sitting tamely, awaiting an arrival.

But that arrival isn’t as exciting as traveling and flying. The poet also notices that people have come there for ‘check-ups’ in their ‘outdoor clothes’ with ‘half-filled shopping-bags’, which shows that they are here to do other more important things.

However, their faces are still ‘restless’ and ‘resigned’ as if they are about to receive some bad news related to their health. The scene becomes more serious when the poet sees nurses coming after every few minutes to ‘fetch someone away’. All these activities of the nurses make the people more fidgety and ‘curiously neutral’.

Stanza 3

In this part, the poet says that when the people enter this building, they not only lose their individualities, but also build up a homogeneous group of patients; some of whom are young, whereas some are old. But they are all faceless numbers, gripped by the fear of sudden ‘abeyance’, and have come to this hospital-like-building ‘with the last of hope’, and ‘with the end of choice’ in their lives.

Stanza 4

Through this extract, the poet further says that some come to this building to ‘confess that something has gone wrong’ with their health; there might have been some problems in their health. It must be an ‘error of a serious sort’.

Thereafter the poet brings sudden change in his tone and starts talking about the building. He says that with a view to housing this endless number of humans, there has been an expenditure of ‘much money’ for the nurturing of this building, and its staffs work here for ungodly hours. But still it is morbid.

Stanzas 5-6

Here, the poet finds people looking around at one another, and see them wondering if they will also be ‘wheeled off’ to the endless rooms, from where it is ‘harder to return from’. In fact, they are afraid of the dark hospitals from where some come alive, while some come dead. All the people are held with fear that will suppress all their hopes and will make them quiet.

Larkin says the building has so many rooms that it is very hard to guess (not guaranteed) whether one would come safe or not. And no one knows whether, after returning from there, he/she will see them or anyone of them who he had left before getting into the numberless rooms of the building.

Comparing this gloomy and serious atmosphere of the building to the outer world, the poet again changes his tone and says that out of this building, there lies normal world, where lie streets, pipes, traffic, freedom, a car park, and children playing their games.

On the contrary, the hospital-like-building is like a ‘locked church’, which has no hope of divine intervention. This is, in fact, like a prison where prisoners are kept confined until they complete their imprisonment. Similarly, in a hospital, the patients are kept until they have recovered from their health problems.

Stanza 7

Here, the poet says that the building takes the people off their identity, and clothes them in ‘washed-to-rags ward clothes’. The whole world is like a ‘touching dream’, an utterly unreal and false illusion towards which we get easily lulled, ‘but wake up separately’. The poet, Philip Larkin, says that all its loves and chances are beyond realities. There exits in it ‘conceits’ and ‘self-protecting ignorance’ which is engulfed with unrealism and falsehood, and the realities of the death are ‘congealed’, and its harsh realities is known when brought ‘in these corridors’.

Stanza 8

Larkin further says that some are fortunate enough to escape death, and come out early from this building, but others may have to join the non-discriminatory ‘unseen congregations’ whose white rows ‘lie set apart’. When the poet says ‘Each gets up and goes At last’ he may mean that one day everybody has to leave this world. The poet, through these lines, gets a little spiritual and religious. But others who are not aware of it may have to join ‘The unseen congregations.

EXTERNAL REFERENCES

Read by the poet himself

ASSIGNMENT

a) Although The Building is a sure sign of advancement in the field of health services, what looms beneath the apparent success is an undercurrent of morbidity. Comment.

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