Showing posts with label d. h. lawrence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label d. h. lawrence. Show all posts

24 Apr 2026

Notes on Mark Fisher's Capitalist Realism (2009) 3: Chapters 7-9

Warwick alumni: Messrs. Alexander and Fisher
 
This is a continuation of a post: part 1 can be accessed by clicking here 
and part 2 by clicking here. 
 
 
I.
 
In a sense, this isn't so much a book review as an attempt to occupy the textual space that Fisher has succinctly mapped out in his book Capitalist Realism and meet him there in and on his own terms. 
 
But it is also a staged confrontation; perhaps even an attempt to exorcise his ghost (it's difficult not to feel a little haunted by Fisher at times). But it's a confrontation that is hopefully carried out in an amiable manner and a generous spirit. One that whilst opening up a pathos of distance between us as cultural commentators, also indicates that we clearly share certain interests, ideas, and points of reference. 
 
Anyway, let us return to the book, Capitalist Realism (2009) [a] - picking up where we left off in part two, at the beginning of chapter 7 ...
 
 
II.   
 
Back in the old days, being realistic was a relatively straightforward affair; because the real was fixed and everyone agreed what it was. 
 
But now, being realistic in the age of capitalist realism, "entails subordinating oneself to a reality that is infinitely plastic, capable of reconfiguring itself at any moment" (54). Now nobody knows quite what's real and what's not, or where they are (readers will recall Fisher spoke earlier of perpetual instability). 
 
That's fine for a small number of people (including Nietzscheans), but can cause issues for the majority who like to know what's what and rely upon what is called common sense. The only way to stay sane is to comply with the madness of the world: 
 
"This strategy - of accepting the incommensurable and the senseless without question - has always been the exemplary technique of sanity as such, but it has a special role to play in late capitalism [...]" (56)
   
It probably helps if one can actively forget most things too; again, for those of a Nietzschean disposition, that fortunately comes easily. 
 
But for those people more like elephants than goldfish - particularly those individuals burdened with hyperthymesia [b] - it isn't easy to forget and, amongst such people it wouldn't be surprising "if profound social and economic instability resulted in a craving for familiar cultural forms" (59) to which they could return to again and again. 
 
This in part explains why postmodernity is retromaniacal in character; "excessively nostalgic, given over to retrospection, incapable of generating any authentic novelty" (59). 
 
 
III. 
 
According to Fisher, although "excoriated by both neoliberalism and neoconservativism, the concept of the Nanny State continues to haunt capitalist realism" (62) - playing as it does an essential libidinal function; "there to be blamed precisely for its failure to act as a centralizing power" (62) when things go wrong. 
 
Why look for systemic causes for the 2008 financial crisis, for example, when you can blame the government? 
 
The fact is, global capitalism's radical lack of a centre is simply unthinkable for most people; they simply can't help believing that there has to be someone somewhere pulling the strings and in control (this returns us once more to the need for God's shadow to be shown in caves long after God himself has departed the scene).   
 
It's at this point Fisher refers us to the call centre that terrifying non-space and "world without memory, where cause and effect come together in mysterious, unfathomable ways, where it is a miracle that anything ever happens" (63).  
 
Fisher hates the call centre which, in his view, distils the political phenomenology of late capitalism in a distinctly Kafkaesque [c] manner: 
 
"The boredom and frustration punctuated by cheerily piped PR, the repeating of the same dreary details many times to different poorly trained and badly informed operatives, the building rage that must remain impotent because it can have no legitimate object, since - as is very quickly clear to the caller - there is no-one who knows, and no-one who could do anything even if they could." (64)   
 
He continues:
 
"Anger can only be a matter of venting; it is aggression in a vacuum, directed at someone who is a fellow victim of the system but with whom there is no possibility of communality. Just as the anger has no proper object, it will have no effect. In this experience of a system that is unresponsive, impersonal, centreless, abstract and fragmentary, you are as close as you can be to confronting the artificial stupidity of Capital in itself." (64)
 
Capital - and capitalism - that's the issue; that's the problem - not individuals nor even the corporations. For not even the corporations "are the deep-level agents behind everything; they are themselves constrained by / expressions of the ultimate cause-that-is-not-a-subject: Capital" (70). 
 
All of which puts one in mind of the Lawrence verse 'Kill Money', which opens with the following lines: 
 
 
Kill money, put money out of existence. 
It is a perverted instinct, a hidden thought 
which rots the brain, the blood, the bones, the stones, the soul. [d]  
 
 
IV. 
 
The final chapter of Capitalist Realism opens with a discussion of the Channel 4 reality show Supernanny, starring Jo Frost. It's a show about parents struggling with their children's behaviour; or, as Fisher argues, a relentless (if implicit) attack on "postmodernity's permissive hedonism"(71) and the failure of the paternal superego (or father function) in late capitalism. 
 
Having never watched the show, I'm going to have to take his word on that. 
 
The question is: what might a paternalism without a father look like (assuming a return of the paternal superego is neither possible nor desirable in an age in which Mum knows best) and "the 'paternal' concept of duty has been subsumed into the 'maternal' imperative to enjoy" (71)?  
 
"A question as massive as this cannot of course be answered in a short book such as this [...] In brief, though, I believe that it is Spinoza who offers the best resources for thinking through what a 'paternalism without the father' might look like." (72)
 
I have to admit, I wasn't expecting that and I'm not sure I entirely understand what this means or implies (is it okay to admit that my knowledge of Spinoza is limited?).
 
What he seems to mean is something like this: what we need to do today is make the move from a sad and depressive individualism to collective action; i.e., something more communal and joyous. 
 
Neoliberalism treats people not only as individuals but as infants whose behaviour needs to be modified not with reference to a moral system of right and wrong, but with reference to their own health and safety. They also need to be told not what to think - because nobody has to think anymore in an age of artificial intelligence - but what to feel.  
 
Unfortunately, having always to be constantly concerned about one's health and safety and sign one's emails with virtual hugs 'n' kisses, results in increased anxiety which leads to mental health issues. The Spinozist alternative, which breaks us out of such upbeat narcissism, encourages us to actually connect with others - whatever the risks and whatever the drawbacks (other people can be irritating and boring; they can be unpleasant and make miserable). 
 
But it's still better to fall in love and become an active member of society than fall into solipsistic isolation; the Covid pandemic illustrated that, one might have imagined. Ultimately, it's all about constructing collective agency rather than just an individual identity. Freedom - or perhaps it would be better to say fulfilment - comes when you are no longer trapped within your self. 
 
And from this line of thought, Fisher comes to the following conclusion: "The Marxist Supernanny would not only be the one who laid down limitations" (76), but also the one who encouraged us to take risks and seek out the strange (or that which is not-self). 
 
It would, if you like, be a slightly less stuffy version of Auntie Beeb - and acid communism doesn't just call for wild and colourful countercultural experimentation, but a revival of "the supposedly stodgy, centralized culture of the postwar consensus" (76). 
 
Fisher thus moves from Gothic materialism and cyber-punk [e] to public-service broadcasting - which is certainly quite a leap and not one I'm sure I wish to make. Unlike Fisher, I have always hated the BBC - even as a young child. But he insists that the effect of "permanent structural instability [...] is invariably stagnation and conservatism, not innovation", whilst, on the other hand, it's the BBC and Channel 4 that will perplex and delight with "popular avant gardism" (76). 
 
This might seem like a paradox, but Fisher is insistent: "This is not a paradox." (76) The fear and cynicism that come to define late capitalism - including the creative sector - always produce conformist and conventional shit in the end; whereas a certain amount of stability is "necessary for cultural vibrancy" (77). 
 
Whatever else he may or may not be, Fisher is not an anarchist who wishes to smash the state; nor is he an old school socialist who dreams of taking over the state and ever-expanding its size and reach. What he wants - and what he calls on his comrades on the more acidic wing of politics to do - is subordinate the state to the general will
 
"This involves, naturally, resuscitating the very concept of the general will, reviving - and modernizing - the idea of a public space that is not reducible to an aggregation of individuals and their interests." (77) 
 
And so, just like that, Fisher again reveals his Rousseauist roots [f]. One half-expects him to begin speaking about enforced freedom and the need for grand narratives. And sure enough ...
 
"Against the postmodernist suspicion of grand narratives, we need to reassert that, far from being isolated, contingent problems [violent teen crime; hospital superbugs, etc.], these are all the effects of a single systemic cause: Capital." (77) 
 
Thus, as well as subordinating the state to the general will, Fisher's neocommunists need to develop strategies against Capital; I refer you to the Lawrence poem quoted above in section III and, if you want, click here for a musical bonus: Killing Joke, 'Money Is Not Our God' [g].     
 
 
V. 
 
Despite Killing Joke releasing their thirteenth studio album - Absolute Dissent - in 2010 and despite the financial crisis two years prior to that, the world kept turning and capitalist realism didn't collapse. In fact: 
 
"It quickly became clear that, far from constituting the end of capitalism, the bank bail-outs were a massive reassertion of the capitalist realist insistence that there is no alternative. Allowing the banking system to disintegrate was held to be unthinkable, and what ensued was a vast haemorrhaging of public money into private hands." (78)  
 
No wonder those who, like Fisher, hoped capitalism might not simply be exposed and discredited but deposed and demolished, were quickly disappointed. 
 
They seemed willing to suffer a second 1920s style Great Depression, but, in the end, had to make do with their own personal forms of depression and concede that without a "credible and coherent alternative [...] capitalist realism will continue to rule the political-economic unconscious" (78).       
 
Still, not wanting to end on a defeatist note, Fisher tries to rally his troops with the hope that "it is year zero again, and a space has been cleared for a new anti-capitalism to emerge which is not necessarily tied to the old language or traditions" (78) of the left. 
 
That just seems naively optimistic (and in political bad taste) to me - there is no year zero - it's a mythical point that Buddhists and Khmer Rouge militants might base their calendars on, but Fisher should know better than to flirt with such rhetoric.   
 
I also wish he would refrain from calling for authentic universality - a phrase that he has possibly picked up from that old fraud Slavoj Žižek and by which he appears to return us to humanism - although I'm sure his defenders would insist appearances can be deceptive and that, actually, Fisher is proposing a new, post-humanist (as well as post-capitalist) form of solidarity (i.e., a model that differs entirely from old school metaphysical humanism).  
 
Nevertheless, it's a problematic phrase to say the least ... [h]
 
 
VI. 
 
I think I noted earlier in this post that I didn't know - and never even met - Mark Fisher. So I rely for insights into his character upon his friends, colleagues, students, etc. 
 
Individuals such as Tariq Goddard, for example, who provides the 2022 edition of Capitalist Realism with an Afterword, in which he tells us that Fisher was a somewhat manic individual who alternated between "the certainty that the finished work would be a portent of good things to come and an intermittent panic [...] based largely on the fear that he had written too little, too late" (82).
 
Goddard also informs us that Fisher was unburdened by false modesty and full of messianic zeal and something of this comes across, I think, in the final pages when Fisher boldly tells those on the left what their vices and failings are - "endless rehearsal of historical debates" (78) - and what they must do to be more successful; plan and organise for a future they really believe in.
 
He continues:
 
"The failure of previous forms of anti-capitalist political organisation should not be a cause for despair, but what needs to be left behind is a certain romantic attachment to the politics of failure, to the comfortable position of a defeated marginality." (78-79)
 
Fisher, in other words, does not like the embracing of victimhood or those who are defeatist by nature. Nor does he have much time for those who might reject his thinking:
 
"It is crucial that a genuine revitalised left confidently occupy the new political terrain I have (very provisionally) sketched here." (79) 
 
And crucial also that they do two things: firstly, "convert widespread mental health problems from medicalized conditions into effective antagonisms" (80); and, secondly, impose a new austerity in order to avoid environmental catastrophe and because limitations placed on desire are a good thing per se (as shown by Oliver James and Supernanny). 
 
To which we can only reply: Tak tochno, tovarishch Fisher!
 
  
Notes
 
[a] I'm using the 2022 edition of Mark Fisher's Capitalist Realism, published by Zero Books, and all page numbers given in the post refer to this edition.  
 
[b] Hyperthymesia - also known as Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory (HSAM) - is an extremely rare condition causing individuals to vividly recall nearly every event of their lives in minute detail (not only what they felt, but what they were wearing and had for lunch on any specific date). Such individuals - and there are believed to be only a hundred in the entire world - often find it hard to forget unpleasant memories or trauma, which can make it difficult to move past negative experiences.   
      Interestingly, Fisher is more concerned with another memory disorder - anterograde amnesia, i.e., the impaired ability to form new long-term memories, whilst past memories remain intact; "the new therefore looms up as hostile, fleeting, unnavigable, and the sufferer is drawn back to the security of the old" (60). For Fisher, this is the postmodern condition defined. 
 
[c] Fisher refers readers to Kafka's novel The Castle (1926), in which K's encounter with the telephone system is "uncannily prophetic of the call centre experience" (64). 
      He then explains what it is that makes Kafka so important as a writer: "The supreme genius of Kafka was to have explored the negative atheology proper to Capital: the centre is missing, but we cannot stop searching for it or positing it. It is not that there is nothing there - it is that what is there is not capable of exercising responsibility." (65) 
 
[d] D. H. Lawrence, 'Kill Money', in Pansies (Alfred A. Knopf Inc., 1929), p. 93. 
      Lawrence maintained a vehement hatred of money throughout his writing; see for example his essay 'Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine' (1925) in which he writes: 
      "Our last wall is the golden wall of money. This is a fatal wall. It cuts us off from life, from vitality, from the alive sun and the alive earth, as nothing can. Nothing, not even the most fanatical dogmas of an iron-bound religion, can insulate us from the inrush of life and inspiration, as money can."
      I'm not entirely sure I agree with this; I would certainly rather live in California, or Switzerland - or even Felixstowe - than Afghanistan under the rule of the Taliban, or Iran under the rule of the Supreme Leader. 
      Lawrence's essay can be found in Reflections on the Death of a Porcupine and Other Essays, ed. Michael Herbert (Cambridge University Press, 1988). Lines quoted are on p. 363. 
 
[e] Mark Fisher's Ph.D thesis was titled Flatline Constructs: Gothic Materialism and Cybernetic Theory-Fiction (University of Warwick, 1999). It argued that cyberpunk fiction and cybernetic technologies are collapsing the distinctions between life/non-life and human/machine into a flat ontology; what he thought of as a form of Gothic materialism, in which traditional ideas of agency dissolve. 
      As for cyberpunk, Fisher analysed this genre of writing not merely as a type of fiction commenting on reality, but as hyperrealist theory-fiction that acted as an extension of the real world and as a guide to 'the increasingly strange terrain of capitalism'. The name of his long-running blog, k-punk (2004-2016), is CCRU shorthand for cyber-punk; the k stands for the Greek spelling of the term cyber (κυβερ). 
      Flatline Constructs was published in book form by Exmilitary in 2018 and K-Punk: The Collected and Unpublished Writings of Mark Fisher, ed., Darren Ambrose, was also published in 2018 (Repeater Books). It brings together some of the best posts from his seminal blog along with a selection of reviews and other writings, including his (unfinished) introduction to a planned work to be called 'Acid Communism'. 
 
[f] Readers may recall that Rousseau is the philosopher most famously associated with the concept of la volonté générale, which he examined in The Social Contract (1762). It represents the collective, common interest of the citizens aimed at the public good, rather than the sum of individual selfish interests. Anyone who refused to obey the general will would be forced to do so.         
 
[g] Killing Joke, 'Money Is Not Our God', was a single released (Jan 1991) from the album Extremities, Dirt and Various Repressed Emotions (Noise Records, 1990). Written by Jaz Coleman, Geordie Walker, and Martin Atkins. 
      It failed to chart, but it's a track which all those who hate Mammon will appreciate. I'm not sure they were one of Fisher's favourite bands, but he acknowledges Killing Joke as significant post-punk pioneers who not only challenged the musical and cultural norms of the period, but fostered counter-consensual collectivity, providing an exit from the present and a will to retake the present.
     If interested, see what he writes about them on his k-punk blog and in the book Post-Punk Then and Now, ed. Gavin Butt, Kodwo Eshun, and Mark Fisher (Repeater Books, 2016).   

[h] Fisher obviously isn't a traditional humanist; he doesn't subscribe to ideas of a fixed human nature (or some kind of metaphysical essence) existing outside of culture and history. 
      And so, I suppose authentic universality has to be thought of as a collective (or mass) political project designed to counter forms of suffering that global capitalism produces. Nevertheless, I still dislike the term and still think it lends itself to idealism.      
 
 

15 Apr 2026

From Pup Play to Babygirl Fetish: Sydney Sweeney Outrages the Internet (Again!)

Sydney Sweeney as OnlyFans content creator Cassie Howard 
in season 3 of the HBO TV series Euphoria (2026)
Images: HBO Max
 
 
I. 
 
Other than the fact that she has great jeans [1], I really don't know much about the 28-year-old American actress Sydney Sweeney.
 
However, it's hard not to know of her when she seems to be in the news every other day, causing outrage and controversy. I don't know if she deliberately sets out to be a provocatrice, but she certainly has a talent for upsetting people and apple carts alike, which I rather admire. 
 
And, what's more, she's one of those rare individuals who really doesn't give a fuck what her critics say, refusing to apologise for her actions, opinions, or acting roles even when under huge pressure to do so.
 
So, here's a new post on the further (mis)adventures of Miss Sweeney ...     
 
 
II.
 
Euphoria is an American teen drama created and principally written by Sam Levinson for HBO, based on an Israeli miniseries of the same name created by Ron Leshem and Daphna Levin. 
 
In its first two seasons [2], Euphoria told the story of a group of Californian high school students struggling to keep their lives on track while dealing with problems related to love, loss, sex, and addiction. 
 
Both seasons received generally positive reviews, although some critics found the relentless scenes of nudity and sexual content - not to mention the substance abuse and self-harm - problematic due to the high-school setting and its teenage characters.   
 
In the third season, set five years later, the group of friends - now young adults - will be seen to grapple with more spiritual issues to do with the problem of evil and the possibility of finding redemption.
 
Whilst Sydney Sweeney is not the star of the show, she's a central cast member and the one who seems to generate most of the show's publicity. Her performance as Cassie Howard in season 2 also earned her a Primetime Emmy nomination.     
 
However, whether she'll pick up another nomination for season 3, which kicked off a few nights ago, is doubtful. Disgusted viewers say the show has gone too far by having her character dress up as a sexualised puppy and an equally eroticised baby in order to provide content on her OnlyFans channel.
 
These same viewers say the show has crossed a line by normalising extreme pornography and promoting material that is illegal as well as grossly offensive and obscene [3]. And, if what you read online is to be believed, HBO is facing a massive backlash with some calling for a total boycott of the network.    
 
 
III.
 
I might be wrong, but I'm guessing that the puppygirl scene hasn't upset as many people as the one in which Sweeney, dressed in pigtails with a dummy in her mouth and wearing a sheer top and a pair of white (nappy-like) knickers, grabs her feet and lifts her legs in the air.   
 
For whilst there will be some who will argue that canine roleplay - or pet play more generally - is the first step on the slippery slope to zoosexual activity (or what used to be termed bestiality), I think most people will concede that it's essentially a BDSM fetish and so is more about the consensual exploration of power and control rather than a genuine desire to romance animals [4]. 
 
Puppygirls may wear collars, chew on toy bones, or beg for treats, but they remain adult human females when all is said and done and whilst pup play can be sexual in nature, that isn't always the case and for some participants it's primarily a form of fantasy and emotional escapism.  
 
Besides, Sweeney looks rather fetching in her puppy dog costume; whereas, dressed as a baby, she does present an altogether more challenging image ...
 
 
IV. 
 
To be fair, the same arguments used to defend pup play can be assembled to defend daddy dom / little girl fetish (or DD/lg, as it is written by its devotees); it's all about role play, age play, and exploring power relationships and has nothing whatsoever to do with paedophilia. 
 
The babygirl enjoys receiving care and protection (and occasionally punishment) from her dominant partner. Similarly, she takes pleasure in surrendering responsibility and embracing softness, vulnerability and dependency.  
 
However, the babygirl rarely regresses to infancy; rather, she knowingly mimics childish behaviours whilst, contrary to appearances, still maintaining a degree of adult agency (as well as sexuality). Like so much else in the world of kink, it's purely performative and consensual. 
 
Having said that, the fact remains that within the popular (non-kinky) imagination babygirl fetish - unlike pup play - remains highly suspect and seems genuinely perverse. And this is why it's the second of the images above, not the first, that has attracted criticism expressed in words such as twistedsick, and repugnant (i.e., the language of physical disgust and moral outrage).   
 
Even critics who at one time celebrated Euphoria are now clutching their pearls and insisting it feels tired and dated - whilst The Guardian's Hannah J. Davies even goes so far as to write that the HBO drama has become "a grubby, humourless work of torture porn that's obsessed with and repulsed by sex work" [5]. 
 
Meanwhile, The Telegraph's Eleanor Halls said the show was increasingly feeling "like the misogynistic fantasies of a creepy old man" and she wondered if Sam Levinson - whom she describes as a debauched pervert - isn't actually extracting some form of revenge on "America's pin-up Sweeney" by turning her character Cassie into "a caricature of an airhead sex kitten" [6]. 
 
The critical tide, then - like public opinion - seems to have turned against Euphoria and against Sweeney in particular. But, as I noted earlier, I very much doubt she cares. When she started on the show, she was earning $25,000 an episode; now, she's rumoured to be receiving just under $1million per episode.  
 
And I would rather blissfully bathe with a bar of Miss Sweeney's soap than drown in a sea of tears wept by po-faced critics and other self-appointed custodians of virtue upset by a TV show ... 
 
 
 
 
 
Notes
 
[1] See the post written on Miss Sweeney and the controversy surrounding her ad for American Eagle: dated 31 July 2025: click here. And see the Nietzschean-flavoured follow up post dated 2 August 2025: click here
 
[2] The first season of Euphoria, consisting of eight episodes, premiered on 16 June, 2019 and concluded on 4 August. Season 2, also consisting of eight episodes, was broadcast in Jan-Feb 2022. The third season kicked off three nights ago (12 April, 2026). 
   
[3] Obviously, terms such as 'extreme pornography' and 'obscenity' are almost impossible to define. As D. H. Lawrence noted in 1929: "What they are depends [...] entirely on the individual. What is pornography to one man is the laughter of genius to another." 
      See the essay 'Pornography and Obscenity', in Late Essays and Articles, ed. James T. Boulton (Cambridge University Press, 2004), p. 236.   
 
[4] Readers who wish to know more about pet play can click here for a blog post about such on the HUD App (a casual dating platform designed for hookup-focused connections rather than long-term relationships). 
 
[5] Hannah J. Davies, 'Euphoria season three review - grubby, desperate and absolutely not worth the wait', The Guardian (13 April 2026): click here.  
      Referring to Sweeney's character, Davis writes: "The way the show handles her cam girl ambitions, in particular, feels bafflingly dated [...] while storylines around sugar babies and kink feel simultaneously voyeuristic and judgy." 
 
[6] Eleanor Halls, 'Euphoria has descended into one man's creepy, sex-obsessed fantasy', The Telegraph (13 April, 2026): click here
 
 
Bonus: click here to watch an official Euphoria Season 3 trailer posted on YouTube. 
 
 

13 Mar 2026

In Defence of My Essay on D. H. Lawrence's Dendrophilia

Illustration by Efrat Dahan
 
 
I. 
 
An academic journal [1] has rejected the following short essay:
 
 
On D. H. Lawrence's Dendrophilia 
 
In an attempt to move beyond established parameters, this short essay examines the perverse materiality of Lawrence's relationship with the botanical world. It affirms dendrophilia not merely as a form of sexual deviance, but as a formal mechanism through which Lawrence facilitates amorous contact with the otherness of the arboreal environment. 
      Lawrence is often situated within the paradigms of vitalism and panpsychism. But such taxonomies often obfuscate the more radical and disturbing dimensions of his work. For far beyond the therapeutic frameworks of nature-immersion and forest bathing, Lawrence delineates a queer ontology of compulsion and, in this context, the tree transcends its status as a mimetic symbol of life to become a literal and figurative object of desire. As a nonhuman entity, its resinous allure facilitates a form of sexual communion that systematically transgresses heteronormative boundaries. 
      In the pornographic imagination, 'wood' is frequently employed as a crude metonym for male arousal. Lawrence, however, specifically via the figure of Rupert Birkin, reclaims the term's material density. Birkin's forest delirium in chapter VIII of Women in Love serves as a seminal text for Lawrentian dendrophilia, characterized by the categorical rejection of human intimacy in favour of a birch tree's tactile specificity; "its smoothness, its hardness, its vital knots and ridges" (WL 107). 
      This represents a more radical eroticism than the mere instrumentalisation of nature seen, for example, in Fortune and Wells's novel A Melon for Ecstasy (1971). Whereas the protagonist of the latter, Humphrey Mackevoy, requires the artificial modification of the botanical body to simulate human anatomy, Birkin seeks a communion predicated on the tree's alien nature. In other words, Lawrence eschews the anthropomorphic impulse that would reduce the tree to a vaginal substitute; instead, he insists on the tree as an autonomous object-in-itself. Birkin, the amorous male subject, does not seek to master the natural environment, but to be penetrated by its "raw earth-power" (MM 159) and to deposit his seed in the "folds of the delicious fresh growing leaves" (WL 108). This is a sexual communion defined not merely by tenderness, but by a deadly serious longing for ecstatic, inhuman contact and involves violent struggle as much as sensual delight. 
      The specific parameters of Lawrentian dendrophilia are further elucidated through his visceral repudiation of Ben Hecht's Fantazius Mallare (1922). For despite this work's controversial reputation and Wallace Smith's explicit illustrations of a man enjoying coition with a tree, Lawrence dismissed the novel as "crass" and "strained" (IR 215). His critique was not born of moral prudery, but from a fundamental ontological divergence: Lawrence argued that Smith failed because, unlike Beardsley, he lacked a sense of malicious irony; "to be really wicked he'd see that even a tree has its own daimon, and a man might lie with the daimon of a tree" (IR 215). 
      In other words, Lawrence's aversion to Smith's artwork again stemmed from its reductive anthropomorphism. By imposing a distinctly all-too-human female form on the tree, Smith transposed a transgressive encounter into a tedious heteronormative cliché. For Lawrence, the erotic charge of the tree resides exclusively in its non-humanity. To "nestle against its strong trunk" (PFU 86) is to engage with an object that is "fierce and bristling" (MM 158), whose "root-lust" (PFU 86) does not mirror human emotion but rather challenges the human subject to reorganise their life in relation to the tree's own onto-botanical reality. 
      This erotic fascination is grounded in a form of object imperative, wherein Lawrence frames his encounter with an American pine, for example, not as a romanticised union, but as a meeting of two lives that "cross one another, unknowingly" (MM 158). This facilitates a materialist union; "the tree’s life penetrates my life, and my life, the tree's" (MM 158). 
      Lawrence's prose adopts an increasingly somatic register when describing this interaction - one which Rupert Birkin describes as a "marriage" (WL 108). In 'Pan in America', he speaks of "shivers of energy" crossing his "living plasm" (MM 158), suggesting a biological and erotic osmosis where the man becomes "a degree more like unto the tree" (MM 159). The "piney sweetness is rousing and defiant" and the "noise of the needles is keen with aeons of sharpness" (MM 158). This is not the language of pastoral bliss; it is the language of a "primitive savageness" (MM 159) that Lawrence seems to find particularly stimulating. To borrow Graham Harman's concept of the withdrawn but irresistible object, the tree's "resinous erectness" (MM 159) acts as a black sun, radiating a gravitational force that holds birds, beasts and dendrophiles in its orbit. 
      Lawrence, then, moves beyond botanical observation or even a chaste form of tree worship, activating "doors of receptivity" that allow the "relentlessness of roots" (MM 159) to fundamentally restructure the internal architecture of human being. His dendrophilia ultimately points toward a perverse and pantheistic sensuality that complicates the traditional boundaries of religious and erotic experience. Lawrence's desire to venerate arboreal being is inseparable from his (Birkinesque) desire to nakedly rub against young fir-trees that "beat his loins with their clusters of soft-sharp needles" (WL 107), etc. 
      By situating this engagement beyond the historical paradigms of domestic or recreational intimacy, Lawrence effectively posits a third category of desire: the pursuit of bliss via the non-human. Rejecting, as mentioned earlier, the mimetic reductions of the artificial vagina, Lawrence reconfigures the tree as a site of profound paraphilic contact. This vision moves sex beyond the procreative or banally pleasurable, allowing readers to conceive of his phallic philosophy as a passionate ontological encounter with responsive vegetation. [2]
 
 
For me, this decision taken by the editor on the advice of two anonymous reviewers [3], is disappointing to say the least; as is the accusation that my text lacks nuance, misunderstands Lawrence's language, and fails to see that his dendrophilia is actually just a repressed expression of same-sex desire.  
 
Of course, rejection is all part of the game and, ultimately, every writer has to accept this. However, I'd like to offer a modest (but robust) defence of the essay and attempt to explain some of its finer theoretical points; not by way of launching a formal appeal or seeking the support of someone to intervene on my behalf, but more as a piece of rhetorical pushback (hopefully not too soured with grape juice).  
 
 
II. 
 
Essentially, the thousand-word text was an attempt to make an original and provocative contribution that veers away from the cosy and conventional literary traditions of Lawrence scholarship - such as vitalism or pastoralism - and engages with the visceral, transgressive character of his prose. The essay also aimed to subvert the green readings that would place Lawrence's work within a network of environmental moralism; by boldly reframing Lawrence's relationship to trees as paraphilic, we move the conversation from eco-mysticism to perverse materialism.  
 
And by making a clear distinction between the instrumentalisation of nature and Lawrence's object-eroticism, suggesting that the tree's otherness is the source of Birkin's desire, the essay aligns Lawrence with recent developments in European philosophy, thereby disrupting the tired heteronormative/homoerotic binary that dominates Lawrence studies. It suggests a queer ontology where the human/non-human boundary is the primary site of sexual tension. 
 
Further, the work - if I do say so myself - displays a certain degree of linguistic and critical wit, uniquely connecting well-known Lawrentian texts, like Women in Love, with more obscure cultural references - such as Fantazius Mallare and A Melon for Ecstasy - as well as Graham Harman's philosophy, thus providing a rigorous intellectual framework for what might otherwise be dismissed as an eccentric reading. 
 
 
III. 
 
Ultimately, of course, the reviewers' rejection stems from a fundamental clash between my object-oriented reading of Lawrence's perverse materialism and their traditional humanist framework. It's not that they fail to understand the work; rather, they understand it all too well - and do not like it. And so they fall back on a gatekeeping strategy that reinforces established biographical and linguistic nuances over radical theoretical interventions. 
 
It was said that I had conflated the terms dendrophilia and paraphilia and that this was problematic. Actually, however, the problem is that the reviewers prefer to define dendrophilia via a standard etymological lens; i.e., simply as a love of trees rooted in Lawrence's documented life and his arboreal writings. 
 
But I'm using the term in a wider, more critical and clinical sense to suggest a non-symbolic sexual communion and highlight the libidinal character of Birkin's desire. It's not that I'm being careless or clumsy with language, it's a deliberate theoretical move. Whether it works or not, is, of course, open to debate. 
 
Moving on, we arrive at the (predictably reductive and, frankly, risible) idea that Birkin's dendro-floraphilia is actually a repressed (and/or displaced) form of same-sex desire; that when he rubs against the trees he is actually thinking of Gerald and that the tree is thus merely a human substitute, rather than an autonomous object-in-itself with its own allure. 
 
To be clear: I'm not overlooking or denying Birkin's attraction to Gerald (or, indeed, Ursula), I'm simply not interested in these all-too-human desires and relations. I'm more concerned with taking Lawrence's demonology and dendrophilia seriously. Clearly, however, these are things my critics prefer to leave vague: the latter is the love whose name they dare not speak. 

  
IV.
 
How, then, might we summarise this conflict of opinion? 
 
Clearly, the editorial board of the journal in question tends to favour research grounded in archival evidence and historical context. My essay probably seemed too speculative for a forum that still prioritises Lawrence's intent and his complex relationship with human sexuality over modern queer or object-oriented readings (indeed, it was probably foolish and mistaken on my part to submit it in the first place).  
 
Sadly, the rejection of the essay reflects an all-too-common tension in academic peer review between radical theoretical intervention and traditional scholarly maintenance. I wouldn't say the editorial board is cowardly or even particularly conservative, it's more a case that they are operating in a very different world with different rules to the "unexplored realm of dangerous knowledge" [4], that Nietzsche speaks of and in which Lawrence challenged us to do our thinking.  
 
Thus, whilst they wish to preserve the historical and biographical authenticity of Lawrence's work and safeguard his reputation as an author; I want to corrupt and destroy everything (not least of all journals that operate as academic echo chambers). 
 
  
Notes 
 
[1] Out of professional courtesy, the title of this journal has been omitted. 
 
[2] The following books by D. H. Lawrence were referenced in the text (as IRMMPFU, and WL):
 
-- Introductions and Reviews, ed. N. H. Reeve and John Worthen (Cambridge University Press, 2005).
-- Mornings in Mexico and Other Essays, ed. Virginia Crosswhite Hyde (Cambridge University Press, 2009). 
-- Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious / Fantasia of the Unconscious, ed. Bruce Steele (Cambridge University Press, 2004). 
-- Women in Love, ed. David Farmer, John Worthen and Lindeth Vasey (Cambridge University Press, 1987).
 
[3] Again, out of professional courtesy - and because this is not a personal issue - the name of the editor has been omitted. 
 
[4] Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil, trans. R. J. Hollingdale, (Penguin Books, 1990), I. 23, p. 53. 
 

5 Mar 2026

Reflections on Two Recent Poetry Collections by Simon Armitage 2: New Cemetery (2025)

Simon Armitage: New Cemetery (Faber & Faber, 2025) 
Cover Image: Insecticide 24 (2008) by Matt Collishaw 
 
'In this collection, if the poems concern themselves with one kind of mortality, 
then the moths relate to another: death within nature.' 
 
 
I. 
 
Armitage opens his new collection with a preface entitled 'Moths': "Because moths / bring word / from the dead" [a]. A moth also features on the front cover of the book; a powerful image by contemporary British artist Matt Collishaw [click here to visit his website].  
 
And so, we're off to a good start: for moths are one of the privileged creatures on Torpedo the Ark - click here - and unlike Armitage, I do not think they are drab and dull in comparison to butterflies [b]. 
 
Armitage explains that a new cemetery was recently built near to his moorland home in West Yorkshire and that rather than object to this development, he decided to make "peace with the dead" (xi) and accept them as his new neighbours. And I think he's right; better to look out over the dear departed than a car park, shopping centre, or a new housing estate (see the poem '[Dark Brocade]', pp.4-5).   
 
And, as it turned out, the cemetery proved a source of poetic inspiration and Armitage produced a significant number of new verses; I've not counted, but there must be over fifty or sixty poems collected here, written "in short-lined tercets linked with/by intermittent rhymes and half-rhymes" (xii). 
 
That's a size and structure I'm personally very fond of and I loved the fact that Armitage describes the process of writing the poems and assembling them into a book as like "threading daisy chains or stringing shells" (xii).  
 
What I didn't love, however, was Armitage's confession that, in the end, he "fell back on a fairly conventional approach" and that he belongs to a school of thought "that believes the best way of enclosing the lifespan of a written sentence is with a capital letter and a full stop" and that finally admitting to this has provided him with "a kind of grammatical relief" (xiii). 
 
That offends me not just as an admirer of E. E. Cummings [c], but as a Nietzschean, who regards grammar as the presence of God within language, i.e., its metaphysical component subscribed to by theologians as well as pedants, pedagogues and, apparently, our present Poet Laureate [d].     
 
Enclosing language with capitalisation and periods is an impossibility in an intertextual universe; you can no more do that than you can permanently enframe being within technology. Any logical stabilisation or relief gained can only ever be temporary.   
 
Still, I'm happy for now to overlook this compromise with grammar - which arguably mirrors his making peace with the dead - and move on to the poems themselves, which are intriguingly named (but not titled) after a species of moth, 
 
In a lovely passage, Armitage explains his thinking: 
 
"Any relationship between a specific moth and the specific subject of the poem is at best ambiguous, and at times accidental. Instead, their inclusion is a form of honouring and memorialising. They are the dedicatees of the poems, and if it is stretching a point to claim that each three-line stanza should be thought of as two wings and a body part, in my mind there is something intentionally fragile, diminutive and moth-like about their construction and design." (xiv)
 
 
II.  
  
The collection opens in Armitage's shed, where it seems he likes to (if not exactly bury) then at least busy himself with his writing: a "stripped-back world / of a wooden chair, an old desk" (3). 
 
One thinks of Heidegger's hut; but also of Van Gogh's bare little room in the Yellow House. And perhaps even of Jesse Pope, as played by Mark Williams in The Fast Show, coming out of his shed to announce that this season, he will be mostly writing poems about moths and the recently deceased.  
 
It is followed by '[Dark Brocade]', mentioned above, which is one of my favourites in the book, dripping as it is with contempt for the living and preference for the company of the dead who "shore up the good earth" (5). 
 
I rather like the idea that, in some ways, the deceased are more vital than obese consumers and weed-killing gardeners.   
 
 
III.  
  
Sometimes, the writer can sit so still at the desk, lost in contemplation, that they might almost be mistaken for one of the dead by an electronic device: "a sensor detects / no movement, /no signs of life, and turns out /the one light bulb" '[Blossom Underwing]' (7).  
 
I think it was the American conductor and composer Leonard Bernstein who said: 'Stillness is our most intense mode of action. In stillness, the human being becomes a poet or most resembles an angel' [e]. Or a moth. 
 
 
IV. 
 
In its modern sense, the word smug refers to someone who is self-satisfied and shows excessive pride in their achievements; not quite arrogant, but moving in that direction. 
 
Poets are not immune - even Armitage with his cheeky-chappie grin and boyishly annoying haircut - might be found a little smug by some readers on occasion, including me (not least when he consents to having the title Poet Laureate printed under his name on the covers of his books) [f].  
 
But the universe, despite being the totality of all space, time, matter and energy, is not smug and nor does it possess a face and to suggest otherwise - as the poem '[Speckled Yellow]' suggests - is profoundly annoying. I do wish Armitage would abandon his attempts at humour - can't someone at Faber take him aside and speak to him about this ...? 
 
His bathos, vulgarity, and anthropomorphism may be very knowing, but it simply isn't funny.     
 
 
V. 
 
I like '[Vapourer]': for one can never tire of descriptions of mummification. 
 
And I like '[Pine-Tree Lappet]' for its "undying loyalty / to simple things" (20); wristwatch, comb, leather belt, shaving brush, wallet, boots, and pen. We remember the dead best of all by the objects they handled [g].        
 
And I really like '[Figure of Eight]' - it seems to me that Armitage really ups his game when it comes to writing about foxes (even dead vixens which he's obliged to bury); perhaps they're his totem animal, who knows? [h]    
 
Some of the poems, however, I don't really understand, or see how they belong in the collection; '[Reddish Light Arches]', for example. 
 
And it transpires that many of the poems did, in fact, appear elsewhere originally - including the latter, which was "commissioned by Aberdeen Performing Arts, for an exhibition of poetry and illustration for the reopening of Aberdeen's Music Hall (2018)" (vi) ... So what has it to do with the new cemetery on the outskirts of Huddersfield?   
 
  
VI. 
 
The annoying thing is, when he wants - and when he resists the urge to play the joker - Armitage is capable of writing some really lovely lines, full of powerful and evocative imagery. Lines like these from '[Lunar Thorn]':
 
 
But at night
            the false moon 
                        of the moth trap
 
bloomed and bloomed,
            the unwordly glow
                       of the 'black light'
 
drugging the air,
            the lawn and flower beds
                       under your window 
 
steeped in an ultraviolet brew. (42)
 
 
I would like a little more of that. 
 
But then perhaps I'm one of those readers that Armitage lampoons in the poem '[Brown-line Bright-eye]' (47); i.e., one who wants shrivelled chestnuts, rusty apples, and human gravediggers shovelling dirt; one who cannot accept plots being dug by heavy machinery and litter being strewn on graves.
 
Perhaps when it comes to death I remain Romantic ...
 
 
VII. 
 
'[Reed Leopard]' is a meditation on a millipede that ends with a terrible thought: if humanity could be vanished with just one magic word leaving the world / to the world, would you / say it? Would you / sing it out loud?" (51) 
 
Armitage doesn't answer: but we know how Rupert Birkin would respond and his reassuring fantasy of a posthuman future expressed in Women in Love is a vision that is shared by several groups on the radical fringes of deep ecology whose members believe, like Birkin, that mankind is an obstruction and a hindrance to the future unfolding of evolution and that only man's self-extinction will allow life to continue perfect and marvellous and non-human [i]. 
 
I have to admit, I'd also find the temptation to whisper the word almost irresistible.  
 
 
VIII. 
 
Is the narrator-poet of '[Heath Rivulet]' the same as the poet-author and did he really call an exterminator "in T-shirt and shorts / to pump white dust / under a roof tile" (52)?
 
That is to say, did he really arrange for the destruction and removal of a wasp's nest in his attic? 
 
I find that more than a little disappointing: readers familiar with Torpedo the Ark will recall my battle with moths in the summer of '22 and how my reluctance to spray them ultimately won out over my bourgeois desire to protect a new carpet. See the post 'Insouciance Über Insecticide' (31 July 2022): click here.     
 
Were the lines in the preface mourning the rapid and shocking decline of insect numbers over the last twenty or thirty years [j] just so many words?  
 
 
IX.
  
Another verse I love: '[Maiden's Blush]' ... off-white moths and ghostly barefooted women - what's not to love? 
 
One is almost tempted to credit Armitage with having established a zone of proximity [k]. Almost.   
 
Another verse I hate: '[Burnished Brass]' ... here's an additional anagram we can (almost) make with the author's name: I am a monster ego [l]. 
 
What is the point of this lipogrammatic exercise; is he trying to say his name is legion and that the unified subject is a convenient fiction (that the 'I' contains a multiplicity of selves)? Or that the living are all the names in history as they embody the molecules and memories of the dead? [m] 
 
Maybe. 
 
But this seems an overly generous (and overly philosophical) reading in my view. And the one thing I have discovered reading this book is that Armitage loves to see himself reflected in his own verse and play with his own literary persona - he's worse than Lawrence (though perhaps not as narcissistic as I can be).
 
 
X. 
 
Speaking of Lawrence, the fat brown trout  "hammocked in amber water / next to St Oswald's church" (62), reminded me of the shadowy fish that "slide through the gloom of the mill-pond" at the beginning of his debut novel The White Peacock (1911) - even though these fish were neither fat nor brown, but "grey descendants of the silvery things that had darted away from the monks, in the young days when the valley was lusty" [n]. 
 
It's funny the connections that the mind makes. Not just between literary fish, but rainbows too; cf. Armitage's "Cheap rainbows everywhere" (69) with the vast rainbow that Ursula Brangwen observes and which fills her heart with anguished hope. 
 
For she saw in the rainbow "the earth's new architecture [...] the world built up in a living fabric of Truth" - even as realises that "the sordid people who crept hard-scaled and separate on the face of the world's corruption were living still" [o]. 
 
And when Armitage writes: "Think of / your hand or arm / brushing / actual skin" (73), who doesn't reacall Lawrence's idea of the democracy of touch and by which he refers to:
 
"The touch of the feet on the earth, the touch of the fingers on a tree, on a creature, the touch of hands and breasts, the touch of the whole body to body, and the interpenetration of passionate love." [p]   
 
Armitage has admitted to being an admirer of Lawrence and often turns to his work for inspiration. But I wonder if he ever wishes he could write like him - or would that be admitting too much for a professional writer and Poet Laureate?   
 
 
XI. 
 
The fact that Armitage's father died when he was about to finish New Cemetery certainly adds a level of poignancy: 
 
"I had been ready to draw a line under the collection early in 2021, but my dad's sudden death that year provoked further poetic responses, less abstract this time, driven and informed by deep personal loss." (xiii)  
 
One wonders if it always takes the loss of a loved one - a parent, a partner, a child - to really bring home the visceral reality of death. And if that's so, what does this tell us about the limits of art and philosophy?  
 
(Having said that, I can't stand those people who value experience above everything else and boast that they are graduates of the University of Life.)    
 
 
XII. 
 
'[Straw Dot]' and '[Grey Chi]' are two further poems worth a mention and worth a read, although they require no further commentary, except to say that Armitage's direction and cinematography are at their best in the latter and his humour at its most charming in the former.   
 
And the line in '[Coronet]' "Here he isn't again," (94) brilliantly captures the absent presence of someone recently departed. When you enter the home of your dead mother or father, you do expect to see them rise from their chair to greet you.
 
It's pointless saying one doesn't believe in ghosts when the dead so obviously leave a presence of some kind. Whether we best think of this in spiritual or tangible terms is really the only point of debate; is it an emotional trace or memory left behind, or is it something a bit more like the mucous trail left behind by slugs and snails?  
 
Either way, I find it more comforting than disconcerting to experience this presence of a loved one. And whilst I clearly have certain issues with Armitage as a poet, I'm grateful to him for this collection in which he reminds us of the important truth that although the dead are "unable to love", they are "capable still /of being loved" (100).  
 
 
Notes
 
[a] Simon Armitage, '[Scotch Annulet]', in New Cemetery (Faber and Faber, 2025), p. 78. Future page references to this book will be given directly in the post.  
 
[b] To be fair, Armitage goes on to concede that, upon closer inspection, one sees within the somewhat sombre colouring of moths "arrangements of dazzling complexity and hypnotic intricacy" (xiv). 
 
[c] The 20th century American poet E. E. Cummings is known for his modernist free-form verse and much of his work uses idiosyncratic syntax and lower-case spellings in order to strip "the film of familiarity" from language and from the world, as Norman Friedman notes.   

[d] In Twilight of the Idols Nietzsche famously writes: "I fear we are not getting rid of God because we still believe in grammar ..." I'm quoting from Hollingdale's translation (Penguin Books, 1990), p. 48. For those using other editions, see the section 'Reason in Philosophy' (5). 
      You can tell grammar is ultimately a matter of faith by the fact that Armitage says he believes in it - that his use of it is not simply a preference or a question of convenience.    
 
[e] I'm paraphrasing from memory, so note that this might not be entirely accurate. I'm sure readers who wish to can track down the actual quotation.  
 
[f] No doubt Armitage was persuaded by the marketing people at Faber that this would be a good idea, but one assumes he gave permission for this. He is, of course, fully entitled to use the title Poet Laureate, but, like Foucault, I would welcome a time in which books were published in complete anonymity so that they could be judged on the contents alone and not the author's name, reputation, or title. 
      See Michel Foucault, 'The Masked Philosopher', in Foucault Live: Collected Interviews, 1961-1984, ed. Sylvère Lotringer, trans. Lysa Hochroth and John Johnston (Semiotext[e], 1989), pp. 302- 307. 
 
[g] See the post 'Notes on the Material Remains of My Father' (6 June 2016): click here.  
 
[h] Armitage wrote a poem with the title 'The Fox' which can be found in Ruth Padel's 52 Ways of Looking At a Poem (Vintage, 2004), p. 138. See also his fox poem 'Den', in the collection titled Dwell (Faber & Faber, 2025), pp. 12-13. 
 
[i] See D. H. Lawrence, Women in Love, ed. John Worthen and Lindeth Vasey, (Cambridge University Press, 1987), pp. 127-129. See also my post on the movement for voluntary human extinction (12 Oct 2013) - click here - and my post 'Birkin and the Ichthyosaur' (7 Mar 2023): click here
 
[j] Insects in the UK have experienced a severe (and ongoing) decline throughout the 21st century. Studies indicate a drop in numbers of over 60% between 2004 and 2023. See my post 'Insecticide and the Eco-Apocalypse' (21 Oct 2017): click here
 
[k] A zone of proximity is a concept used by Deleuze and Guattari to describe a chaotic space wherein distinct forms, subjects, or species - such as human and insect - lose their boundaries and become indistinguishable (thus they sometimes refer to it as a zone of indiscernibility). It is such zones, in other words, that allow the process of becoming to unfold.
      The reason that I hesitate before saying such is what Armitage establishes in his poem is because he shows little inclination to think in such terms and I don't want to simply map alien concepts and personal concerns on to his work. Needless to say, however, it would add a good deal of interest and philosophical depth to his poetry were he to do so.
 
[l] This only works if I am kindly given permission to swap an unwanted 'i' for an additional 'a' and 'e'.    
 
[m] See the post 'Even the Dead Don't Rest in Peace' (2 July 2013) - click here - in which I argue that, thanks to the conservation of mass, the carbon atoms of the departed are forever recycled and reincarnated and in this way the souls of the dead might be said to re-enter and pervade the souls of the living. 
      See also the related post: 'Atomic: the D. H. Lawrence Memorial Post' (1 Mar 2021): click here.  
 
[n] See D. H. Lawrence, The White Peacock, ed. Andrew Robertson (Cambridge University Press, 1983), p. 1. The poem by Armitage I'm quoting from is '[Shining Marbled]'. 
 
[o] D. H. Lawrence, The Rainbow, ed. Mark Kinkead-Weekes (Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp. 458-459. The poem by Armitage I'm quoting from is '[Mother Shipton]'.   
 
[p] D. H. Lawence, The First and Second Lady Chatterley Novels, ed. Dieter Mehl and Christa Jansohn (Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 323. 
 
 
For my thoughts on another recent collection of poems by Armitage - Dwell (2025) - please click here.