by Sylvia Plath
Tomorrow I’ll feel wider awake & relaxed in the beginning of vacation: what bliss to study at random, of a choice of 100 & more books, not to turn out any more blithery papers! I’ll really enjoy correcting themes, I think, for a change!
Take care, this gruelling month, it’s the hardest of the year: spring is so near, & yet winter is still with us. My best love to you & Warren. I can’t wait to run up my beloved Nauset beach in the sun.
Love,
Sivvy
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Monday 18 March 1957
TLS (aerogramme), Indiana University
Monday, March 18, 1957
Dearest mother . . .
I eagerly await to hear your reactions about my position teaching freshman English at Smith. Mary Ellen Chase wrote a lovely letter* when I told her the news & says she will begin looking for an apartment for us when she gets back next month. Naturally Ted & I will no doubt want to pick out a place of our own in June, but I appreciate her thought. Dear Mr. Fisher, as I perhaps said, wrote a lovely welcoming letter too. I will really feel I’m doing the utmost I can to “serve” both my Smith benefactors and the Fulbright people.
I am slightly punch-drunk with fatigue. We stayed up late last night while I finished my last term chore: the book review of The Stones of Troy by Trypanis, the Oxford don. It was a difficult job, as I felt most of the poems were weak, & fought hard to be positive & quote a lot in my 7-page review. But also graphically showed in detail why I felt such worn adjective-noun combinations as “haunted gardens”,“golden toys”, “jasmine throat”, “dusty grey”,“ivory chariots” etc.* did little to re-awaken the vigor of the greek myths or transform the greek legends vitally in the context of modern poems. Honestly, when I pick up The two British monthlies: Encounter & The London Magazine, I shudder & grit my teeth at the cheap, flat “new movement poetry”, which never commits itself, but talks about and about: the meanings are dull, often superficial “top-of-the-head” philosophizing, and there is no music, no sense picturing. It is hogwash; not even that good. Both Ted & I are alone, really alone, I feel among young modern poets (with the exception, obviously, of Wilbur---who doesn’t dare or care to treat the great subjects of life: love, death, war, etc.
Karl Shapiro,* Elizabeth Bishop* & a few others. All the other poets we admire are in the older generation: Thomas, Yeats, Eliot,* W. C. Williams, Stevens,* etc. We want logic, but not without blood feeling; music without vague emotion. I can’t wait to see Ted’s impact on the world of poetry. The British lights, like GSFraser, who pretend to nurture every tremulous poetic voice will blush at ignoring & rejecting Ted within the year. They think they can ignore us in their magazines, because we are too disturbing. In a year, the whole picture will be changed. Ted’s book will put their eyes out. (He has, by the way, written an admirable letter to the Poetry Center, justifying 2 of his poems which Miss Moore objected to: a fine letter). We wait to hear from Harper’s Brothers themselves. About money. And so on.
Both of us are really beat this week. Me with the end of term, Ted with his school play which he has been rehearsing single-handed---he even had to make up a 3rd play himself. This has involved an hour or two after school every night for a month: the 3 nights of performance are this week. Praise be. Then all will be lovely. It has been like spring here: daffodils, forsythia, mild green days.
Another rather surprising piece of news---dear Wendy Christie (that nice widow-friend of Dr. Krook’s) burst in yesterday waving a London Sunday Times. To my amazement, Harold Hobson,* well-known theater critic, in his weekly column, devoted several lines to a very favorable review* of “Spinster”, one of my 2 poems in the new Oxford-Cambridge Gemini! I was astounded & overjoyed: tried to get copies today, but couldn’t, so I quote (look it up if you can: it’s really a terrific honor---a poem reviewed in a theater column!) Mr. Hobson starts the top of his 3rd column review of As You Like It (a Cambridge undergrad production) with the following words:
“The young ladies of Cambridge, it appears, know all about love. On my way from Liverpool Street I read in the new university magazine “Gemini”, a poem “Spinster”, by Sylvia Plath, twelve times, no less. Here, sharp-edged, memorable, precise, is a statement of the refusal of love, a firm, alarmed withdrawal of the skirts from the dangerous dews.” Then he goes on to praise Rosalind. Isn’t that nice, though? Ted & I agreed the greatest joy a poet has is writing something a perfect stranger can want to read “twelve times”! Do share this with dear Mrs. Prouty. In the London Sunday Times! I still have to pinch myself.
I have just typed & sent off two stories to the Ladies’ Home Journal: about 43 pages in all: “The Laundromat Affair” and “The Fabulous Roommate”: wish me luck. I really don’t think I’ve done too badly for writing during a full term, but feel, of course, that I’ve done nothing. I’ll be so glad when exams are over. How I dream of this summer! It sustains me through these weary days. I still manage to keep 20 manuscripts between us out. Thanks for the cold pills by the way: hope they’ll be a good charm & ward off any symptoms.
I plan to sell my bike: transportation home would cost more than it’s worth & it’s gotten pretty rusty. I’ll either rent, borrow or buy a 2nd hand one for the Cape so Ted & I can bike to Nauset Beach. Will advertise for my other typewriter trying to sell it at the beginning of next term. My watch bracelet, by the way, has deteriorated inside. Should I fix it or turn it in & buy another? I don’t want to pay repairs if it will just fall apart again. Well, to try to make a rhubarb pie before Ted gets back, I’m off . . .
Much love to you & Warren –
Sivvy
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Tuesday 19 March 1957
TLS (aerogramme), Indiana University
Tuesday: March 19, 1957
Dearest mother . . .
Such a nice mail today, and I feel so much brighter after a good night’s sleep that I thought I’d write a follow-up to my last letter written yesterday. I’m so glad you too are rejoicing about the Smith job. I will no doubt be scared blue the first few days, but from the keen way I enjoyed managing those round-table discussions on poetry at the English festival in New York state,* I’m sure I’ll love my work. The schedule is surely the freest anywhere, the girls intelligent & willing (at least the larger proportion) & since they’re not lectures but discussion courses (every girl has to do an 8-page theme every 2 weeks) I should learn a lot & where Ted & I are “young poets” & writers, with strong integrity & critical views, I should have pride enough to feel that my viewpoint, growing as it is every day, may help them gain new insights at their stage of development---after all, they are 7 years behind me!
The big brown envelope came from Harper’s today.* Very exciting. A huge blue contract to sign with hundreds of little bylaws. Ted gets the chance to negotiate with a British publisher himself, so I think we’ll write to Faber & Faber, TS Eliot’s place. They should, I hope, jump at the chance. As I said before, the book is scheduled for publication in mid-August. We are going to have a decent picture taken of Ted Saturday. The Harper’s letter began:
“You know from Mr. Bleibtreu* of the Poetry Center how warmly we at Harpers concur in the decision of the judges for the Publication Award. The Hawk in the Rain, quite apart from its success in the contest, is a collection we are delighted to have on our list.”
I am going to buy a huge scrapbook* when I come home & paste up all Ted’s acceptances & important letters (they have only dinky scrapbooks here). These are things our grandchildren should treasure!
Also, in the same mail, a nice letter for Ted from Henry Rago, editor of Poetry (Chicago), accepting 4 long poems.* We ran to count up the lines (mercenary creatures that we are) and figured the check should amount to $64. Quite nice. Imagine, the royalties on the book will be only 15% of 43% of the retail price (the 43% is the wholesale price!) On a $3 book thi
s means the measly sum of about 10 cents a copy! To make the paltry sum of $100 you’d have to sell 1000 books. I hope the reviewers make it a best seller! They should! You see, selling the poems to magazines earns far far more. Poetry prizes, too. So the next book, we think, will be made up only after all the poems in it are already sold to magazines. I must find out about copyright laws. I think we both must get agents in New York, now. Especially if I sell anything to the women’s magazines.
I would like very much for you to arrange a session at Dr. Gulbrandson’s* with both Ted & me as soon as possible when we come home (so if we need to make several trips we can do it before we go to the Cape). I know I must have a cavity, but don’t want the expense in £££ now in England, as we are still desperately trying to save £60 for Ted’s ship fare. We have just this month caught up with our bills, our beginning of the year extra-expenses were staggering---Ted’s tailor, dentist, visa fee, ship deposit & my £60 for the first term at Newnham. I feel we’ve done well to pay our bills. Now at last we can get ahead and save something! I accompany Ted to his play tonight & tomorrow---the first time I’ll have been at his school. We are so glad it is getting over with; Ted has been so deadly exhausted, I am insisting he gives up teaching on June 1, the day I finish my exams & we will both take a rest-trip to Yorkshire to bid goodbye to his parents, & then perhaps visit Scotland. I have seen next to nothing of England’s natural beauty & feel I should, I am so prejudiced against it in everything else: politics, class-system, medical system, fawning literary cliques, mean-minded critics (the irate, nasty person-to-person letters the most respected critics---GS Fraser, Louis MacNeice,* Spender, Leavis,* et al throw back at each other in the weekly papers are shockingly mean & narrow). Of course, for official purposes, I have found England heavenly (and, for myself, I have): the one place in the world that offered me the husband of my whole life & love & work. Ted & I are so happy together. Our love seems deeper & richer every day: I feel more in love with him now than I ever did before we were married. And this marvelous chance of both of us beginning from scratch & working up together has been magnificent.
I am fascinated to hear about Warren’s prospects. Let me know the minute you hear of his deciding anything. I do hope he gets a fellowship to go abroad. I am amazed and overcome at his offers: what a life he has ahead of him! He’ll be building Connecticut Valley mansions like Clem Moore’s father!
My best baking product is apful kuchen: I have got it as close to grammy’s as possible & feel so nostalgic whenever I make it. What fun we’ll have cooking for Ted & Warren! We must experiment lots & you show me all sorts of things. Remember: give yourself treats after every dentist session! It seems scarcely possible that we sail for America in only THREE MONTHS from tomorrow!
Lots of Love,
Sivvy
PS: I know it’s wicked to ask you to send anything more, but I’m down to my last Flako pie crust mix & would be unendingly grateful if you could sometime manage to send off a couple of boxes: I make about a pie a week---usually open meringue to save the crust. It is the only thing that keeps in this damp weather. All else goes soggy. (Also love minute rice).
xxx
s.
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Tuesday 26 March 1957
TLS (aerogramme), Indiana University
Tuesday noon, March 26
Dearest mother . . .
This must be a gruelling time of year for everybody. Ted and I both were exhausted and blackly depressed this weekend as an aftermath of little sleep & a term’s accumulation of fatigue and last-minute slaving by both of us, Ted on his play, me on my papers & articles. Sunday loomed blacker than pitch, & it seemed an intolerable effort to move to go to bed. We took a long night walk & felt much freer & with early bed this week, & me “free” from the paper-producing routine, & Ted’s play over, we improve rapidly. Both of us haven’t written anything to please ourselves for months, it seems, but now, suddenly with the clearing spring air, we feel much more optimistic. But so much still hangs fire---15 manuscripts of poems & stories & our two books: my poems & Ted’s animal fables.
Ted’s play enchanted me. I haven’t laughed so hard or enjoyed myself so much at a play since I’ve been here. The children, in gay little Elizabethan costumes, looked simply edible & the little boys dressed as girls made the most adorable figures. They did two short plays---about a roast-meat seller & a play about Jove & the weather: every character was perfect, not a line missed & they obviously loved doing it. They looked so scrubbed & their little cockney voices were so husky. They sang songs & did dances in the interval. I wish you could have seen it: Ted was amazed, himself, and very pleased. The audience really brought out the best in them. I was astonished at the maturity & mastery they showed. What a sad thing, such grim futures facing them. I never want Ted to have to undergo a year of strain like this again. I don’t care if he only gets a part time free-lance job this next year, I want him to write above all. Both of us feel literally sick when we’re not writing. My Smith teaching is something I need as much as writing time: it’s the best thing for me, psychologically, to feel I’m not a perpetual student. I want to work: to earn a salary, not live off a grant: I want to remember how young & unread 17-year old girls still are. I want, above all, to make them love their work & shock & stir them into new awarenesses. Which will teach me immeasurably much & also give me a sense of joyous pride: the more I put off teaching, the more I feel “I’ll never know enough.” Well, I never will, but I can & should be able to do a good job teaching freshman. Must read novels this summer: George Eliot,* etc. Ted & I have read scarcely any novels. How we both look toward this summer! It hasn’t been an easy year for either of us.
Ted was very impressed about the news of Wilbur’s astounding fortunes.* When I think that Wilbur was publishing his first book of poems at Ted’s age, ten years ago, I don’t feel we are so retarded. I am secretly hoping Ted will get a good college teaching job---maybe at Amherst, the 2nd year (if I’m asked back to Smith) & will discover how unique the chance is for American poets & even though we travel abroad, want to come back. There is not a question of our living in England: both of us are eager to get out (although I am terribly fond of Cambridge). It’s Europe x America. Ted is so eager to go: he feels the opportunity there more & more, I think. And if I manage this year right---giving him time, leisure & peace to write (the Cape is perfect: your most significant present!) maybe he’ll want to center his life there. But one must never push him: he’ll come round of his own accord. Maybe he can be a part-time reader of exams in the large lecture courses at Smith. Or work on a radio station. We’ll see. I’m sorry about there being no openings at Amherst, but not worried, now I have a good job.
Ted had a talk with the radio-ham upstairs and all is well: they shut up, make fewer phone calls & were pathetically eager to please: the girl, especially: she isn’t very healthy, had a miscarriage a year ago & has nothing to do but want a baby: he is going slowly deaf & is continually sick with sinus. God, how healthy & productive Ted & I feel in comparison: crude, peasant-born stock in comparison to the Persian-Jew Scotch-chieftain combination upstairs, & joyous. My scorn for their pampered, paid life (they’ll never have to work) has dwindled to a kind of tolerant pity. I grind daily on the rough draft of my “novel”: I only know that it will cover 9 months & be a soul-search, American-girl-in-Cambridge, European vacations etc. If I do my daily stint, mere un-rewritten blatting it out, I should have about 300 single-spaced pages by the time we sail for home: a ragged, rough hunk to work from this summer. Once I see what happens myself, I’ll start careful rewriting: probably chuck this & rewrite the whole mess. Hope tentatively to have it ready to be looked at by Peter Davison in the fall, rewritten through the spring of next year. I get courage by reading Virginia Woolf’s “Writer’s Diary”:* I feel very akin to her, although my book reads more like a slick best-seller than anything. Her moods & neuroses are amazing. You must
read this diary. Most illuminating. Have just sent off the colossal sum of £56. 10s to pay the rest of Ted’s shipfare. We’ll live on a shoestring till next month, but the albatross is off. After much inner debate, we’re leaving out those two controversial poems. Both of us feel better. I only hope you take it easy on typing Warren’s thesis:* I am sorry he didn’t get a Cambridge typist: he should have, like I did for mine:* it is too easy to put it on you. We thought of getting a typist for redoing our two poem books of Ted’s (one copy for my Eng. dept. here, one extra for Harper’s & a carbon to farm out to some Eng. publishing firm here) – but it wasn’t worth it, so I set to work again today! It borders on drudgery now but does save money –
xxx
sivvy
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Monday 1 April 1957
TLS (aerogramme), Indiana University
Monday Morning
April Fool’s Day
Dearest mother . . .
A gray raw day, after a balmy sunlit March, welcomes in your month. Ted & I have started our 6 am rising schedule again, after time out for a week’s recuperation from our school-work, so I am renewing myself in mid-morning with coffee, and a piece of the best cake I’ve ever made: caramel cake, with caramel frosting. I really need a candy-thermometer when I come home: the directions said boil sugar & milk till 238 degrees or the “soft ball stage”: in my innocence I thought this might be immediately, and after hours of burning my tongue (I can’t help tasting things) & using up half the stuff by trying to make soft balls, it seemed done: thick as molassas & very good. Is it supposed to take ages to boil to the right consistency?
Ted & I improve. His vacation begins in two weeks, just as mine ends, & we have two days of appointments for his medical exams & visa interview in London on April 17th & 18th, so we’ll look about for a stainless-steel pattern then & maybe see that agent who offered me a free lunch* & some information: I won’t sign up, as I hate the New York agent for their firm: that woman I met before I left.