Ten days after I was, you were born.
Heading out past sixty, I’m still hanging on
But you baled out at thirty, telling the world
‘Dying is an art. I do it exceptionally well.’
Now you’re a young poet of deserved fame, I
An ageing one of modest reputation.
From where I sit, cool Daddy looks at you.
He sees the pain, and the brat – and the brat in pain.
Living is an art. He does it as well as he can.

Send Letters To:

The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN


Please include name, address, and a telephone number.

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences