If you ever see me at a party, I’ll most likely be standing off to the side, looking slightly lost, staring down into my glass. Perhaps you’re that way too — introverted, awkward, thirsty. Nice to meet you. And since we’re here, may I introduce you to my friend Philip? Or perhaps you’ve already met.

The posthumous publication of Larkin’s letters revealed him to be something uglier than a garden-variety curmudgeon. The private expressions of misogyny, antisemitism and xenophobia he shared with friends have dented his reputation in the years since his death.

If he hasn’t been fully canceled, it may be because his gift for self-cancellation makes such censure redundant. Larkin writes from the standpoint of someone who is out of touch, out of step and out of sorts, with himself and everyone around him. He’ll never be the life of the party, and you may wonder why anyone invited him in the first place.

Nonetheless, it’s good to see him there. For one thing, it’s nice to know that someone might be having a worse time than you are. He even has a theory about why some people have a better time than others; in fact, he’s an expert on the subject.

Misery loves company, and this miserable chap turns out to be just the companion you’re looking for, at least until you can find another drink.