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"Of course I was drugged, and so heavily I did not regain
consciousness until the next morning. I was horrified to
discover that I had been ruined, and for some days I was inconsolable,
and cried like a child to be killed or sent back to my aunt."
--Mayhew, London Labour and the London Poor
Even so distant, I can taste the grief,
Bitter and sharp with stalks, he made you gulp.
The sun's occasional print, the brisk brief
Worry of wheels along the street outside
Where bridal London bows the other way,
And light, unanswerable and tall and wide,
Forbids the scar to heal, and drives
Shame out of hiding. All the unhurried day,
Your mind lay open like a drawer of knives.
Slums, years, have buried you. I would not dare
Console you if I could. What can be said,
Except that suffering is exact, but where
Desire takes charge, readings will grow erratic?
For you would hardly care
That you were less deceived, out on that bed,
Than he was, stumbling up the breathless stair
To burst into fulfillment's desolate attic.
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I think this is one of Larkin's very best poems. I think what some might have seen as a failure of compassion on the poet's part is actually his grasping at the enormity of what happened; it's the fact that the act was so terrible that means that the poet couldn't comfort his subject; he feels her grief 'sharp and bitter as the stalks he made you swallow', even at distance of more than half a century and this is compounded for him as he imagines that fasionable London would have looked the other way, having no interest in the 'ruin' of a wrking-class girl.
But the conclusion hits you like a blow: for all her grief, the girl was 'less deceived' than the man who drugged and raped her, believing that this 'fulfilment' of his desires would make him happy. I think it's vital to remember that Larkin says that the victim was 'the less deceived,' not the less harmed or wronged. There is no lack of compassion here in this beautifully crafted poem which deals movingly with the grief of the girl but then surprises us with it's comments on the dreadful nature of uncontrolled desire. I think it's a masterpiece and I'm always somewhat surprised that, even considering the power of Larkin's more celebrated work, this poem doesn't attract more attention.
Mark from United Kingdom