After reading first 200 pages of Motion's detailed biography of Larkin I rejected him as a selfish little troubled soul whose poetry is not that great to justify for all his negativness towards other people. Reading the following brought me a tiny little step closer to Larkin again:
The literary World
'Finaly, after five months of my life during which I could write nothing that would have satisfied me, and for which no power will compensate me...' My dear Kafka,
When you've had five years of it, not five months,
Five years of an irresistible force meeting and immovable object right in your belly,
Then you'll know about depression.