The Letters of Sylvia Plath Volume 1

by Sylvia Plath

  Now . . . this letter is occasioned, not only by Marcia’s vocal approval, but primarily as a result of her sharing several of your letters with me, notably the last one. So the mounting and unspoken admiration which I had already conceived for some of your previous writing (particularly for a poem called “Civilization”) has come to the surface in the form of this note.

  Next year you will be going to Yale. Popular college connotations would picture a good-looking blond guy in white bucks with an easy-to-please grin on his jovially ruddy features. But that’s not it, not at all. That’s just a type – one facet of a many-sided story. One great advantage about the bigness of the lovely Gothic place is that you can be any sort of an individual you want if you’ve got the strength of character and convictions. Lest this sound faintly moralistic in tone, let me hasten to say that I think you’ve made the best choice . . . and I’ll echo with you that the easy way is to be avoided. Lord, how I despise the rosy path, which breeds only flabby, weak-minds slugs of individuals.

  The part of your letter about “white-on-white” struck me with the most force . . . any guy who can write like that should have someone around to keep after him if he lets up or gets despondent. And Marty is the best person I could wish for you.

  I also get seething mad at civilization, dogma, prejudice – and so on. Enough so that I’ve got to spill over on paper. Let me write a few lines of my latest rough sketch, and then I shall fold up my Sheaffer’s Lifetime pen, and silently steal away . . .

  “We all know that we are created equal:*

  All conceived in the hot blood belly

  Of the twentieth century turbine;

  All born from the same sheet

  Of purple three-cent postage stamps;

  All spewed like bright green dollar bills

  From the same government press;

  All baptized with Chanel Number Five

  In the name of the Bendix, the Buick, and the Batting Average . . .

  ——

  We all know that certain truths are self-evident:

  All of us freedom bent like the pink worm

  Crossing the street after rain . . .

  All safe to spend an hour a Sunday

  Meditating piously on the coming chicken dinner;

  All made in god’s image . . .

  (Even Mrs. Maller with the double chin

  And the slobbering village idiot

  Jabbering senselessly on the corner.)

  ——

  Enough, enough. Some people think of Yale as a great Gothic Martini. It isn’t; I’m prejudiced, having gotten attached to the place through a rugged individualist.

  Merci for writing the way you do.

  Sincerely,

  Sylvia

  TO Ann Davidow-Goodman

  Tuesday 26 June 1951

  ALS, Smith College

  Tuesday

  June 26, 1951

 

  Dear Davy –

  I’m sure that you could draw the infants alot better than I can, but at least you get the general idea – two girls (2 and 4) and a boy (6). As you may imagine, that is just about the most wicked combination of ages possible!

  But before I tell you about the situation here, I want you to know how thrilled I was to hear your voice over the phone the other night! I had the absurd feeling that you were in Lynn or Marblehead, just waiting to come over and say hello in person. Maybe you will, though, before the summer’s over! I wish you could get down to Swampscott on my day off (any old time, in other words) and we could take a picnic and spend the whole time down on the beach. It’s only about a half hour’s trip from Boston!

  Now for a little sketch of the place where I live and work and have my being (such as it is.) Well, it’s a beautiful big white mansion on a big grassy green hill overlooking the water. My room is three times as big as the one back home, and it is a lovely sunny one, on the second floor, overlooking the ocean, too. There is a porch right outside it where I crawl out to lie in the sun, while the little angels (?) take their naps. The people who are employing me are beautifully rich (according to my standards.) It’s a doctor’s family, and he has his own beautiful five room office and labs downstairs, which gives you an idea of how big the house is.

  Every one around here, in the series of big white houses, is related and the whole place is a part of a big family estate.

  Sounds lovely, huh? Well, work consists of leaping cheerily out of bed in the morning when the faces of the two oldest (Freddy and Pinny) poke into my room. I dress them (after much fussiness as to which striped socks match which jersey – never knew kids could be so darn particular about what they wear!) and then bring them downstairs, where the youngest is usually howling in her room with a pair of soaking wet diapers clinging to her. There upon I feed the puppy, slice 7 oranges, squeeze them, toast about a loaf of bread, and, in general, help get breakfast underway. After which I do the dishes (for 6 of us), clean up the upstairs and make the kids beds, do the laundry in the Bendix (the washing sure piles up, as each little one gets a spandy clean outfit to dirty every day – and the baby wets through stacks of diapers.) After these little trifles, I usually do the ironing. In the rest of the morning I look after the kids, or take them down to the beach. Lunch is the hot meal. After which they all (thank God!) take a short nap. By this time I too need a nap, but good, and groan inwardly when I hear them clamoring to get up – the vivacious little darlings don’t seem to appreciate the chance to sleep. But, I do, Boy! When little Joanne gets up, I don’t have a minute’s rest, but dog her wandering footsteps like a bloodhound. Supper I get myself, and by that time I have barely enough pep to slap myself up a sandwich. The baby gets a bath and bed. While I do dishes and get in the wash, the two older ones play act. Then I give them both a bath, and get them in bed by eight o’clock. Really, I could go to bed when they do – but I manage to read or write letters till about ten. I have one day off a week, in which I shall try to get as far from the sound of little pattering feet as possible. As you can imagine, for an undomestic, un-maternal creature like I am, this 14 hour day is a wee bit of a strain. However, I do think the children are adorable (except when they hit each other on the head with blocks, throw plates of hot soup on the floor and perform other such gentle antics.) Also, it’s fun living with a doctor – and when his secretary isn’t here I even take messages and make appointments.

  The one funny and pathetic angle about this deal is the cooking part. When I came, Mrs. Mayo said casually – “I suppose you can cook meat and vegetables for the children.” I gulped. “Me? Cook? Heh, heh. Well, no, I don’t.” Honestly, I told you all the many things I can’t do. Well, cooking’s another. Ann, I actually don’t know how to cook eggs! I’ve never used an oven or a broiler in my life. Mother spoiled me by always being so capable and never making me work in the kitchen, and do I regret it now! It was horribly embarassing at first, as I scalded soup, tried to stuff a hotdog roll in the pop-up toaster (any half-brained fool would have cut it in half!) and burned the rolls in the oven. My hands are covered with cuts I got while trying clumsily to cut vegetables – only I would quickly run water over them to hide the dripping blood so she wouldn’t laugh at me. Finally she realized that I was completely dumb and said she’d help me learn to cook a few things, for which I was piteously grateful. I thought she’d fire me on the spot.

  In fact, the first day I worked here I was so homesick that I couldn’t stop crying and feeling sorry for myself and wanting to go home. Another thing I miss is boys. Dick is way down the Cape working, and I don’t know a soul else – especially down here. I’m around the house all day, and the only time I have to “meet people” is when I’m down the beach. But the sort of boys that will pick you up are pretty poor, pretty poor. So little Sylvia langishes, dateless, while the two handsome boys of the family take their girls to cocktail parties, yacht club dances and sailboat rides. I am a mess, by the end of the day, and feel most unatt
ractive. Sex appeal---wow!

 

  Well, baby, I am about to fall willingly onto the sack after a full day.

  About Jim – I don’t like the idea of writing him. But if you say so, I’ll drop him a postcard. I’ll wait till I hear from you though . . .

  Be good and come to see me!!!

  Love,

  Syl.

  TO Marcia B. Stern

  Sunday 1 July 1951*

  ALS with envelope, Smith College

  Sunday

 

  And here is a glamorized version of the psuedo-mater after a loooong day at the office. (Started out to be Pinny’s face, but matured into a frowsy almost-adult.)

  After Thursday and Friday off, I returned somewhat regretfully to my home at BB. I had worked over a week and a half without a rest, and so really slept at my domicile, which was startlingly silent and peaceful somehow. Best of all was sight of brother. When he walked in Thursday night after work (at farm), I gasped. Not only did he tower tanly above me, but he wasn’t half bad looking, and his shoulders are getting broader by the minute. Seems he and his best pal (Rodney* – a skinny little guy with a cute sense of humor) have rented Rodney’s brother’s old jalopy for the summer, and so will toot back and forth from the old farm in style, now. Funny thing is, Rodney only got license yesterday – Warren is just learning. Had a lovely time listening to records and chatting with the two of them. Also managed to call up Dick’s mother, who wanted to drive me down Capewards to see him. I was sooo tempted, but said no, next time – being as I wanted to rest and see home for a little. Do him good, too! He’s the only man amidst billions of glamorous waitresses down there (last I heard, one from Arthur Murray’s was teaching him a few new dance steps!) Absence makes the heart grow fonder ---- of someone else. (My, what platitudes the girl is lousing up.)

  If you could see your home, deah! 100 Beach Bluff, I believe – has its own rose garden and garage opposite, wherein Grandma Blodgett picks posies and grandpa stores spare chauffeurs (respectively.) Say luxury, but we’re living in the lap of it!

  Feel not anxious re my un-domesticity. I’m managing better as days go by. I’ll be glad to have you around, though, to answer certain questions which I’ve saved up. Even turned out a batch of Toll House Cookies today in absence of family and in spite of a fire in the oven, which caused me minor concern.

  If I don’t get mumps now, I never will. Freddy just got over them as I came here. When I got back yesterday, Pinny had ’em. She looks like a chipmunk. I myself have sore throat – no swelling though, so I keep silent and go about my daily labor.

  One last shot – I had to laugh about Freddie’s technique for getting food! He’s smarter than I thought. He never gets anything to eat before bed – and is usually in by 8. If there is noise, I am firm – no bribes, either. He came back and said “Marcia gives us cookies. I’m hungry.” I laughed uproariously as I remembered your letter.

  See you Friday – la – de – dah

  Syl

  TO Ann Davidow-Goodman

  c. Friday 6 July 1951*

  ALS, Smith College

  Dear Ann,

  God, you don’t know how good it was to hear from you! I am months behind on writing letters to people, but I’m determined to answer yours first. I couldn’t resist, after reading those dynamic pieces by your Boy. Seriously, Ann, I do think he’s “got something” – a certain tough sensitivity, if there’s any such thing. If he wanted to get down to business, I’m sure he could turn out some tight, neat stuff – but if he won’t take criticism, he’s really going to be his own worst enemy, as you say. First, he’s got to stop thinking he’s going to get away with messy and mistakenly typewritten manuscripts. By the way, that love letter was just glorious I almost cried, because it was the most tender thing I have ever read. I think you’re both wonderful people, and terribly lucky to have each other. I was almost tempted to keep that picture of the two of you and say that it got lost in the mail – but little Sylvia’s got to be honest, if nothing else – so back it goes, after many admiring stares on my part. Gosh, but you-all look glamorous and wonderful, and lovely.

  How I envy your going to art school this summer. I’d give anything to be there with you. I’m so glad that everything’s worked out for the best as far as Smith’s concerned. I am not only proud at your philosophy, but really pleased that life once again is lifting. I keep telling myself that you can bounce around on rock bottom just so long, until you get so used to the blackness that it begins to look lighter. That is all very fine to tell someone else, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s sometimes pretty awful to take your own advice and swallow it whole like a raw egg. I am so sick of drifting around after unruly children that I hardly can bear to grit my teeth every morning and trip gaily downstairs to get breakfast. I need someone to give me a good talking to, I fear. Of course, an added annoyance arises from the fact that I caught a cold, and have been bogged down by the usual sinus infection which always comes with it. If I weren’t so darned proud, I’d quit and go crying home to mummy – but I’ve got to earn money this summer, and now that I’ve got stuck, I can only say “never again” and go bravely about my work, which comes in spurts from 7 am to 9 pm.

  As for men, I am only a wee bit frustrated – seeing as I haven’t spoken to one for a month. Dick is stashed away waiting (on tables, not for me, honey) down the Cape, and I write him long letters – to which he responds with accounts of how he misses not having more hours in the day so he could do all the wonderful things he wants to do down there. He is one of four waiters among about 50 gorgeous, talented waitresses. Dates, sports and visits fill his off-hours. Still the old dear says he hasn’t found anyone quite like me. You have no ideas what that tidbit of information does for my collapsed ego. Eddie is long gone. I am completely to blame, since I didn’t answer his last letter.* It was different last summer when I had oceans of weekends and evenings after farm work to write him long letters in. But now, sadly enough, I just don’t have time. Up heah, I know not a male, although there are oodles of girls from college who are baby sitting around. But unfortunately, girls’ company is greatly unsatisfying. Don’t you agree that one has to see in other people’s eyes that one is appreciated and loved in order to feel that one is worthwhile? I never realized that until now – when it is brought home to me that no one cares how I look or dress – no one says with a word, a gesture, “My, you’re not so hard to look at.” So after a while you don’t believe in yourself any more. You consider yourself an unimportant nothing which is almost fatal. So I would like to get dressed up, to come downstairs and have a nice clean sharp guy waiting at the bottom to take my arm, as if I were an equal, not just a wee bit socially inferior.

  Now more about Jim. Honestly, Ann, tell me more about him. I love you to feel you can confide in me without thinking I’ll get fed up with a particular subject. When it’s anything so special, I love to hear about it. He wrote me a short note which came a little after your letter – asking about getting things published and generally quite light and evasive . . . without coming out really frankly with opinions. But those I got from reading his letters to you. I really don’t quite know what to write him, but I’ll do my best to get acquainted, if you like. I still feel a little queer about it. I’d like it better if you and Jim could double with Dick and me, and get acquainted that way.

  As soon as I have a spare minute, I shall look up this Marty Haskell of yours.* She sounds nice because you say so.

  Wish me patience and fortitude on this business deal, baby, and pray I can turn those damn silver-plated clouds inside out somehow.

  Love you – and want to know in details how things go with thou and Jimmy-boy.

  Syl.

  TO Aurelia Schober Plath

  Friday 6 July 1951*

  ALS with envelope,

  Indiana U
niversity

  Friday noon

  Dear Mummy –

  Well, Marcia came yesterday, so I decided since she didn’t know anything about when her next day off would be, that I’d take off today. Turned out to be a miserable cold gray day, which soured my independent beach plans. So I went over Marcia’s instead and had a busman’s holiday while listening to her talk and play the piano – she can play simply anything. From what she says, I think she has a nice setup, and she loves her children – also has several hours off in the day while they play together or take swimming or sailing lessons. I have to struggle with myself not to be resentful, mad and jealous. Also, she has another young girl – 17 – staying at the same place as a waitress, so she should be kept company. Of course she can play with the older children and swim with them – which I can’t do so well with my little ones. But I must control myself – to make the way for pleasant rooming next year.

  Live and learn! I decided to stay in bed this morning in spite of children’s noises. Freddy came in about 8:30 and said, “Mummy wants you to get up.” So I did, and learned that I was expected to make beds, breakfast, and do dishes before going anywhere on my day off – to pay for my breakfast, no doubt. So I apologized. Not that I really mind. But the lunch and supper meals concern me a bit. I asked her what to do about them, and she said, “It’s often more fun to eat out, and there are lots of stores where you can get picnic things.” Which meandering I presume to mean that we are not welcomed to get sustenance here. Well, as it started to rain today, I couldn’t see biking anywhere to eat out, so I curled up in my room with a pile of unanswered letters. About 1:30, Mrs. Mayo had gone out, so I went down and got myself, under Helen’s friendly eye, a sandwich, a hardboiled egg, some cake and some milk – rather guiltily, I assure you. Do you think I have the right to do that? I don’t think they care to have us hanging around on days off anyway.

  I feel very sorry I don’t write more often, mumsy, because your letters are great sustenance to me. I miss you and home and Warren, and wouldn’t mind so much if I felt I was learning anything, or writing or drawing something worthwhile. As I said, when there is no one around to make you feel wanted and appreciated, it’s sort of easy to talk yourself into feeling worthless. I haven’t really thought about anything since I’ve been here. My reactions have been primarily blind and emotional---fear, insecurity, uncertainty, and anger at myself for making myself so stupid and miserable.