by Sylvia Plath
I do feel, Hans, that we are good friends, and feel alike about many things. If you and I, so many miles apart, can get along, I feel that there can be no war against a Race, or a Country that is right. For every nation has those who are good, those who are bad.
Have you ever heard this poem by Thomas Hardy:
“The man he killed”
“Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin!
—
But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
And killed him in his place.
—
Yes; quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You’d treat if met where any bar is,
Or help to half a crown.”
Enough for now. Do write me your ideas on the subject, and write me as soon as you have time.
Best wishes, always,
your friend
Sylvia
P.S. Don’t forget the picture!
TO Edward Cohen
c. Monday 11 September 1950
TL (copy),* Indiana University
Dear Ed,
Your letter* came just now . . . the one about your walk in the city, about war. You don’t know quite what it did to me. My mental fear which can be, at times, forced into the background, reared up and caught me in the pit of my stomach; it became a physical nausea which wouldn’t let me eat breakfast. So I thought I’d type a few lines back.
Let’s face it: I’m scared too, scared and frozen. Animals, at least, don’t experience fear until it’s upon them, immediate. But our nerve reactions can convey worry about the future, until the fear insinuates itself into the present, into everything. So I’m sick, and I’m trying to figure out just what I’m afraid of.
First, I guess I’m afraid for myself . . . the old primitive urge for survival. At times like this you get your blind urges shot into strong relief. I want to escape . . . to get off into a dimension where I’ll be safe. It’s getting so I live every moment with terrible intensity. Last night, driving back from Boston, I lay back in the car and let the colored lights come at me, the music from the radio, and the reflection of the guy driving. It all flowed over me with a screaming ache of pain . . . remember, remember, this is now, and now and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it. I don’t want to blot the fear out, and blur the edges of living now. I want to become acutely aware of all that I’ve taken for granted. When you feel that this is the good bye, the last time, it hits you harder.
Another thing. If this is It, the great ultimate destruction, I’ve got to transfer my egoistic dreams of a leisurely, expressive life for me to something else. After the insane thing is over, if I’m left, there’ll be the job of building on chaos, on nothing, on quicksand. May be your kids could pick up where you left off. The crazy thing about the first two wars being made to clear the world for unborn generations is that we generations don’t seem to have a chance. Who are the fat prosperous movie producers that said: “we may be weary of war, but it’s better to fight. One steady lock at the Politburo makes it obvious to any American that he could not endure existence in that vast concentration camp which is Russia and her satellites.”* Will they have to put on a uniform? Hell, no. The movie intake will just rise as more and more try to escape for an hour, an evening.
And all the guys. Maybe the ones who never would have made anything of themselves would like a purpose shoved at them: God, what a noble thing, to fight for my country. In the papers you can read quoted statements, “When I’m called I’ll go.” “Sure I’ll go.” They don’t print your letters, or your feelings. What about all the fellows who think, who don’t need Harry Truman to tell them when twenty years of living are going to end? And what about girls like me, who want to live and love on solid ground? who want time to mature, to grow up? Oh, Ed, don’t laugh at me . . . I’m so pathetically intense. I just can’t be any other way. But I love all the guys who are like your friend who was going to Paris, and the one about to get his Ph. D. They’ll never know me, but I’m with them, thinking of them. And you, you’re someone to cling to . . . one of those human associations . . . a voice, a listener. It’s crazy, but somehow I feel it’s good to have you there. I never realized how much associations meant. How much a tangible object can mean in a time when your life, your ideas, face obliteration. The very three-dimensional feel of this typewriter has a calming effect. It says: I’m here; you can still hold to me.
I’ve got to have something. I want to stop it all, the monumental grotesque joke. But writing letters and poems doesn’t seem to do much good. The big men are all deaf; they don’t want to hear the little squeaking as they walk across the street in cleated boots. Ed, maybe all this sounds a little frantic. I guess I am. When you catch your mother, the childhood symbol of security and rightness, crying desperately in the kitchen; when you look at your tall dreamy eyed kid brother and think that all his potentialities in the line of science are going to be cut off before he gets a chance . . . it kind of gets you.
There’s much more to say. I could tell you how insane men are; how simple peaceful living can be had if only they’ll stop before it’s too late. I’d rather have half the world enslaved than have the whole world a radio active junk heap. The promise of a War To End Wars is slightly frayed around the edges. It is not human nature to kill; I’m human, and I have a great reverence for life, for the integrity of the individual, as you would say. But I guess you’re a Communist nowadays if you sign peace appeals. Ed, people don’t seem to see that this negative Anti-communist attitude is destroying all the freedom of thought we’ve ever had. They don’t see that in the hate of Russia, they’re transferring all the hate they’ve ever had. Do you realize that if you stated your views, you’d no doubt be labeled a Communist? That’s because everything they don’t agree with is communist. Even if you’re for Pacifism, you’re a communist. They are so small-minded that they can’t give anyone credit for wanting life and peace even more than world-domination. I get stared at in horror when I suggest that we are as guilty in this as Russia is; that we are war-mongers too.
That is all for now. You know; you understand. And get this, I’m with you. Don’t stop talking to me, please. It’s as important as if we were the only people alive . . . .
. . . . Two weeks and I’ll be off to college. Funny how hard it is to study when you don’t see how much value French verbs will be to you, when you realize that studying philosophies of life won’t help you when you’re dead.
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Sunday 24 September 1950*
ALS, Indiana University
Sunday night
Dearest Mummy,
Well, only five minutes till midnight, so I thought I’d spend them writing my first letter to my favorite person. If my printing’s crooked, it’s only because I drank too much apple cider tonight.
Even though I don’t have much finery adorning my room yet, it seems that it’s pretty much home. Tangible things can be awfully friendly at times. Even though I’ve only been here since three, an awful lot seems to have happened. I kind of like getting a quiet first acquaintance with my room and the girls.
I feel that I’ve wandered into a New York apartment by mistake . . . The maple on my desk feels like velvet. I love my room, and am going to have a terrific time decorating it.
I lay down for half-an-hour, and listened to the clock. I think I’m going to like it . . . The ticking is so rhythmic and self-assured that it’s like the beat of someone’s heart. Sooo . . . it stays on the bureau.
I wandered downstairs and saw Ann Bennett* (the Wellesley soph) and our House Pres. for a while. We chatted, and then at 9:15 to 10:15 had an informal cider party in the Pres.’ room. The girls are all pretty wonderful. Of course as we live through social and school work, personalities and character traits will no doubt crop up
, rather obviously. Just now it’s nice not to have any serious thoughts. After our little get-to-gether, at which a delightful extrovert freshman from Kansas* kept us in hysterics, we three freshmen sat and talked. After which I left them in their room on the first floor, drifted into conversation with Ann on the second, and finally arrived here at 11:30. Girls are a new world for me. I should have some fascinating times learning about the creatures. Gosh, to live in a house with 48 kids my own age---what a life! There are (don’t faint) 600 in my class . . . Mrs. Shakespeare* is very sweet. In fact I like everything.
Tomorrow – up at 7 -- shopping etc. with people – hygiene – tea registration -- class meeting. My next letter, I hope, will be more coherent . . .
Love
Sivvy.
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Monday 25 September 1950*
ALS (postcard), Indiana University
Monday morn
Dear Mum . . .
Woke up early this morning and went to Freshman breakfast . . . rather overwhelming to wonder what’s behind the various faces. So many . . . many. I put $180 in the bank this morning in a savings acc. (They prefer you get a checking acc.) and think it will help me save by not ripping off checks every minute. Lunch in an hour here – then exam, tea supper, frosh meeting . . . I’ll catch a nap sometime. Bought the dearest table at the exchange for $4 . . . my little luxury. Bedspreads are, in general, horrible. Bates* come in insipid colors, and I saw my dream one . . . slightly higher, which I may decide to buy---deep wine . . . plain which is rare. Can’t wait to get mail – – even Eddie C. would do.
Love
Sivvy
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Tuesday 26 September 1950*
ALS (postcard), Indiana University
Tuesday
Dear Mother,
I just thought I’d drop you a line before I left for a 5 minute chat with my faculty advisor.* Yesterday I dropped in at the tea at the president’s house . . . Mr. Wright is a doll.* My mind is rather a blank, as I can’t quite remember what I did after that. Am drinking water like mad. Food is good . . . and I’m bound to eat & eat. I am the Freshman in a floor with Juniors and Seniors . . . you should hear them “Deah me, I must go to the Yale-Cornell game, I’ll call up Bill . . .” or “She didn’t marry him . . . Oh, God!” Life, when it settles down, may be rather fascinating. Our class is immense. M. Schnieders* is a dear---reminds me of you.
Love –
your sivvy
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Tuesday 26 September 1950*
ALS, Indiana University
Tuesday noon
Dear Mother,
Well, after being deluged with 604 new faces, voices, screams and individual attitudes, I am slowly finding one or two “landmarks.” My first impression was that the whole house was a medley of party girls, but one Freshman (a Smith granddaughter . . . with two sisters here) saw my Bénet* poetry book . . . seems she likes him too. Of course, classes just aren’t discussed much under the flurry of getting rooms arranged. Anyhow two SCAN* representatives just walked out, and told me to drop around second semester if I want to get on . . . of course I was glad to have that homey touch . . . I love reporting because I forget myself and get to know other people. I think if I worked up from a freshman it would be fun . . . even if I only dusted desks this first year. And I’ve subscribed to the Sunday Tribune* for the first semester. ($3.20) Is that the one you recommended over the Times? I got to talking with a girl . . . a sophomore from Lawrence House . . . about the money situation, and she said she’d love me to drop over and see what co-op house living is like.
My faculty advisor---Mr. Kenneth Wright, a Botany instructor, is a darling. What with half the class to advise, I don’t imagine I meant too much to him, but he said that people had written nice things about me, and Smith could expect alot. (I’m so curious . . . I’d love to read my recommendations.) He said two things “Keep liking all your courses” and “have a good social life.” Well!
Ilo wrote the dearest letter to me. If I save enough money this year, I’m going to New York for a weekend with a {some} girl friend . . . he said he’s entering an art exhibit this spring, and knows a lot of young men that would like to meet me. So . . . if I save, who knows? His mother* is slim, young-looking, very intelligent---speaks French, Russian and German.
The hygiene exam was peculiar. I would not be surprised if I did not pass. Technical questions were few and far between, and even K. Frances-Scott* didn’t say whether the best way to stop a dormitory cold epedemic was to sterilize all dishes or to isolate the victims. Both look pretty sensible to me. If I do get those slightly more expensive drapes, I’ll no doubt want three bright pillows and a bureau scarf in flowered pattern – gray & royal blue, or gray & maroon---but we shall see . . . Boy, adjustment is frustrating . . . but fascinating.
Love
Sivvy
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Tuesday 26 September 1950*
ALS (postcard), Indiana University
Tuesday night
Dear Mummy,
I don’t know just how much I’ve written you, but I’m sure you won’t complain about an extra postcard here & there. So much to ask you--- so much to say. I haven’t had a minute alone so far. Now I’m sitting on the second floor, music playing, and four other frosh in various attitudes around me. Got the curtains & spread – BATES for $17.95. Sounds awful, doesn’t it? But my room will be terrific if I get 3 gray & maroon or gray & royal blue flowered pillows Will do wonders! Think you could make up a bureau scarf of the same material for me – 30" × 15"?? How about a gray patterned scatter rug? Or is that out of the question. 25¢ bought me a wastebasket – and that was that. For a long time! I have firmly resolved to buy no clothes. Wonder how much my lab fee will be. Lisa* is very sweet . . . very friendly--red haired. Girls are fascinating creatures.
Love,
Sivvy
30 × 15
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Tuesday 26 September 1950*
ALS (postcard), Indiana University
Tues. night
Dear Mummy,
Another card before I drop off to bed. My time is improving---it’s only quarter of 12 now. Lisa and I had a lovely talk for a while. I think I’m going to like being in my room an awful lot. It’s terrifically homey, and the whole house is just the friendliest conglomeration of people imagineable. “Gerry”* – – one gorgeous creature just got a picture & write up in Flair as representative of eastern women’s colleges. People are always talking about Europe & N.Y. Lisa told me about how good it is not to work too hard, but to allot time for “playing” with kids in the house. Seems she’s done a neat job of adjusting. I hope I can really get to know her some time. She has quite a friendly attitude, and I could talk to her about almost anything. She mentions almost nothing about herself, though. But I’m crazy about her.
Love---
me.
Someone’s already borrowed my short story book!
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Wednesday 27 September 1950*
ALS, Indiana University
Wednesday 9 PM
Dear Mother,
I’ve been going so steady for these past days that I decided to take the evening off and go to bed early. If my plans work out, I’ll do so in a few minutes . . . that is, if no one drops in to visit me. I’ve taken a bath, washed my hair, and feel infinitely more at home. My room looks so homey, and if I get homemade cookies now & then, it will help. (That hint dropped like lead, I’m afraid.)
The food here is better than at the country club. One freshman has a crate of apples, so we’re always munching those between meals. And bed time snacks are a usual thing. Thank God I’m trying to gain weight. My belt is already quite snug. The eggs in the morning are done to perfection. We go out to the kitchen and wait to catch it hot from the griddle on our toast. Roast beef & Yorkshire pudding were on tonight’s menu.
Girls
are sweet. The freshmen are dears. One girl in our annex house is from Indiana or Ohio (I forget which), and if we have room I’d like to have her up for Thanksgiving. So many Western girls can’t go home, and I’d love to have at least one stay over.
Most of the frosh are out tonight at the student center, but I thought I’d turn in. Music drifts down the hall. How could I ever be homesick? There are so many openings---so many groups, so many girls. Lisa is a dear. She doesn’t smoke, she knits, plays bridge, and is evidently the most brilliant girl in her class. She doesn’t do her studying obtrusively, and she seems very steady & self-willed. She also doesn’t stay up past 11 ever. I feel kind of good knowing she got through by being so sensible. It’s sure a challenge to me. Evidently you can be good in studies and have fun in the evenings too.