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南开大学外文系英专1965届及各届校友纪念网站
沉痛悼念杨新芝女士

 

杨新芝

杨新芝,河北省人。 1965年7月毕业于南开大学外文系英语专业。毕业后分配到哈尔滨外专。约于1974年调回北京,在北京二外工作。于1989年到中国政法大学工作,至2004年65岁退休。杨新芝于2015年8月13日病逝于北京人民医院,令我们非常痛心。刘秀清同学在给谷启楠同学的信中说,“今天(2016年2月15日)我给杨新芝同学电话拜年时,接电话的是她的儿子。他说他母亲不在了,已经过世五六个月了。新芝病逝于肺癌伴有心脏突发意外。我非常惊愕,去年夏天还与她通过电话,她还好好的,并未发现什么问题。据说,生前有段时间她感到胸闷憋气,五个月前到医院检查被确诊是肺癌,家人带她就医治疗,刚到医院还未诊治 就突发心脏病,未治而亡。幸好,刚刚得知患病,走时又无痛苦。新芝儿子说找不到南开老同学和哈尔滨老同事的通讯录,委托我代他家人向他已故母亲的老同学老同事说一声。”

“沉痛悼念杨新芝同学,并对家属表示亲切慰问!” -- 老同学 李维树。

“对于杨新芝同学的逝世表示沉痛的哀悼。上次 65 屆同学聚会时见到她的情景如在眼前。新芝同学,安息吧!” -- 马振铃老师

“惊闻新芝英年早逝,不胜唏嘘。老天怎么不留人呢?新芝是多么乐观的一个好人,她的音容笑貌始终浮现在我的面前,特别是重温九九年春节期间我们的合影。愿她一路走好。代问其家人好。” -- 老同学张连泰

“我近日从谷启柟那得知,咱班杨新芝已于几个月前因病去世。我代表朱柏桐和崔永禄对新芝的逝世表示沉痛的哀悼!新芝朴实可亲的音容笑貌永远留在我们心中。安息吧,老同学杨新芝!” -- 老同学孙毅兵

“ 杨新芝同学逝世的消息我已转告杨俊起  李广然等,大家都深表沉痛哀悼。" -- 老同学刘焕群

我们沉痛悼念新芝同学。 杨新芝同学将永远活在我们心里。

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groupphoto5
毕业照后排左起第一人为杨新芝 1965

1999北京
右一为杨新芝,1999 北京

杨新芝2008
右起第二人为杨新芝 2008年6月,北京

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English Poet Philip Larkin (1922-1985)

larkinphilip
This photo is used to illustrate articles on and
poems by Larkin, it qualifies as
fair use
under United States copyright law.

Philip Arthur Larkin (1922 – 1985) is commonly regarded as one of the greatest English poets of the latter half of the twentieth century. He was also a novelist and a jazz critic. He spent almost all of his working life as a university librarian. He first came to prominence with the publication in 1955 of his second collection of poems, The Less Deceived, which was followed by The Whitsun Weddings in 1964 and High Windows in 1974. He was offered the Poet Laureateship following the death of John Betjeman in 1984, but he declined the honour.

Larkin was born in the city of Coventry. From 1930 to 1940 he was educated at King Henry VIII School in Coventry and, in October 1940, in the midst of the Second World War, he went up to St John's College, Oxford, to read English language and literature. Having been rejected for military service because of his poor eyesight, he was able, unlike many of his contemporaries, to follow the traditional full-length degree course and attained a first-class honours degree in 1943. While at Oxford he met Kingsley Amis, who would become a lifelong friend and frequent correspondent.

Shortly after graduating from Oxford, Larkin was appointed municipal librarian at Wellington, Shropshire. In 1946 he became assistant librarian at University College, Leicester and, in 1950, sub-librarian at Queen's University Belfast. By this time he had published two novels and his first collection of poetry. In March 1955 Larkin was appointed librarian at the University of Hull, a position he retained until his death.

During the thirty years he spent in Hull, Larkin produced a significant body of poetry. In 2003, almost two decades after his death and despite controversy about his personal life and opinions, Larkin was chosen as "the nation's best-loved poet" in a survey by the Poetry Book Society, and in 2008 The Times named Larkin as the greatest British post-war writer.

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Next, Please
by Philip Larkin

Always too eager for the future, we
Pick up bad habits of expectancy.
Something is always approaching; every day
Till then we say,

Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear
Sparkling armada of promises draw near.
How slow they are! And how much time they waste,
Refusing to make haste!

Yet still they leave us holding wretched stalks
Of disappointment, for, though nothing balks
Each big approach, leaning with brasswork prinked,
Each rope distinct,

Flagged, and the figurehead wit golden tits
Arching our way, it never anchors; it's
No sooner present than it turns to past.
Right to the last

We think each one will heave to and unload
All good into our lives, all we are owed
For waiting so devoutly and so long.
But we are wrong:

Only one ship is seeking us, a black-
Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back
A huge and birdless silence. In her wake
No waters breed or break.

Aubade
by Philip Larkin
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
-- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused -- nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear -- no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

This Be The Verse
by Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself

The Trees
by Philip Larkin

The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too,
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

Church Going
by Philip Larkin

Once I am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,
Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new-
Cleaned or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
"Here endeth" much more loudly than I'd meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.

Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate, and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?

Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort or other will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,

A shape less recognizable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,

Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation -- marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these -- for whom was built
This special shell? For, though I've no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;

A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognised, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.

Addendum:

Philip Larkin - Poet-librarian
by Tim Woodhouse

I see you've brought your books back late,
You students are so naughty!
This tardiness makes me irate,
I'll fine you £1.40.


This was a small fortune in 1983, I can tell you!
Not that the great man actually manned the desk and stamped our books at Hull University, but it's a fun idea that tickles me now I'm older and more foolish.
Kind regards, Tim W.

larkinhouse
Larkin's parents' former Radford council house overlooking a small spinney, once their garden. (photo 2008)
(Copyright holder: Snowmanradio, used undet the Official License.)

larkinhousehull
Home of the English poet Philip Larkin (1922-1985) at 105 Newland Park,
Hull, Yorkshire, England.
(Copyright holder: Keith D)

larkinlibray
Brynmor Jones Library, the Hull university library, where Larkin was the Librarian for 30 years.
(The pictue has been released into the public domain by the author Leew.).

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