by Sylvia Plath
Sunday was the crowning day of my life. You’ll never guess what I did! To begin, Myron called for me at 10, and we had breakfast at a diner down town. Then we went for a long walk in to the cold, sunny country, and he told me about his travels, and experiences (Oh, on the way downtown he asked to see something I wrote, and so I calmly walked into the store and picked up a copy of Seventeen. He was most enthusiastic about the poem,* thought it was rather brilliant . . . and told people we met henceforth with evident pride that I wrote and got things published. Now that is a healthy attitude. And I felt an honest pride in his accomplishments – no envy, or jealousy, but just a great gladness that we were both so intellectually & physically alive!)
As we went walking out in the fields, we saw some airplanes landing close by, and so hiked over to watch them landing like toy gliders at a small airport. As we approached the field, a tall, lean, blue-eyed man with a moustache came toward us. “You two have walked pretty far today,” he said. We sort of gasped, and he explained that he had driven past us on his way to the airport. We chatted for a while, and he showed us his private plane which he had bought for $800. We three had lunch at a diner across the street and listened to the pilot describe his experiences. He looked at us. “I’m going up this afternoon, want to come?” I stared at Myron, who gave me an understanding, benevolent grin. “She’d sure like to, sir,” he told the pilot. So we went back, and they strapped me into the two-seater little plane, and Myron took my pocketbook, and said he’d wait and to have fun.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. We taxied across the field, bumping along, and it felt like being in a car. I didn’t believe we would go up, but then, suddenly, the ground dropped away, and the trees and hills fell away, and I was in a small glass-windowed box with a handsome mysterious pilot, winging over Northampton, Holyoke, Amherst, watching the small square, rectangular colored fields, the toy houses, and the great winding gleaming length of the Connecticut river. “I am going to do a wing-over,” he said, and suddenly the river was over my head, and the mountains went reeling up into the sky, and the clouds floated below. We tilted rightside up again. Never have I felt such ecstasy! I yelled above the roar of the motor that it was better than God, religion, than anything, and he laughed & said he knew. “You fly it,” he told me, and I took the stick and made the craft climb & tilt. For half an hour we were up, and when I came down, Myron met me – (it was all free,) thanked the man, and we walked back to town along the railroad tracks like a couple of hoboes, talking about flying. He was so pleased to see me happy!
We spent a drowsy afternoon at Lawrence by the fire, he studying, me reading, and we went to have a club sandwich supper at Rahar’s, after which we relaxed at Lawrence, listening to Beethoven till 10:15.
Today I am probably going to the infirmary because of my insomnia, so don’t worry if you get a notice. I have an appointment with the psychiatrist this afternoon about my science, and will ask her if I can go up there for a few days to rest and get rid of a slight sore throat. Also, Mary Ellen Chase called me this morning & I hope to see her sometime this week, too.
Sober news from dick this a.m.* He has been very sick – nausea, vomiting, diahrrea (sp?) and so on. Poor guy. Only hope he can still come home. By the way, the letter* was all his own idea. I didn’t even know he wrote it.
Bye till Friday afternoon –
your blissful daughter,
Sivvy
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
c. 28–29 December 1952*
Telegram, Indiana University
BREAK BREAK BREAK* ON THE COLD WHITE SLOPES OH KNEE ARRIVING FRAMINGHAM TUESDAY NIGHT 7:41. BRINGING FABULOUS FRACTURED FIBULA NO PAIN JUST TRICKY TO MANIPULATE WHILE CHARLESTONING. ANYTHING TO PROLONG VACATION. NORTONS WERE PLANNING TO MEET ME SO WHY NOT CALL TO CHECK. MUCH LOVE. YOUR FRACTIOUS FUGACIOUS FRANGIBLE=
SIVVY=
1953
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Thursday 8 January 1953*
ALS with envelope,
Indiana University
Thursday 1:30 p.m.
Dear mother –
Just to let you know that I existed through the first day – spent $1 (!) on taxi fare to and from my unit (I really never could have walked in the treacherous sifting of snow) and went to three classes. Last night after you left I hobbled to the library and spent over an hour hunting for books in the stacks and finally found one. I’m sorry I made such a fuss about being a baby and crying, but forgetting that carton broke the last straw of my nervous control: I felt so badly and scared by so many things that I hardly could manage to be gay and cheerful.
At least today was the most rushed I’ll probably have for some time. I started early for my science class (luckily I had read the chapter at home) and learned to my horror that we have, absurdly enough, a written exam a week from this friday! Imagine! As if midyears weren’t enough! So I’ll be all the more rushed next week, which will be hectic. I have two unit papers due Thursday, and piles of reading, which I’ll have to cram for all this weekend. Then, the weekend of the 17th I have to do a creative writing paper. Which will leave me, at least, four or five days to work on my Mademoiselle before starting to study the grind for science (how I dread it.)
Walking does exhaust me, although I’m taking it as more of a routine. I don’t know what I’d do without my walking cast! I only hope the heel doesn’t come off, now that I’m used to it.
I am going to try to spend as much time as I can studying in the libe, so that I won’t begin to feel that the room here is a prison. I do feel awfully shut-in! I always took such joy in walking, as part of my symbolic freedom, and now life is a weary hobbling from the bed to the toilet to the bookshelves. My leg feels so hot and itchy all the time that I can hardly keep from whacking it open against a tree and scrubbing all the dead skin off.
Myron’s letter was very nice, and he ended by saying he had a few free days between semesters and wondered if I did, too. I somehow think that this was more than a pointless question, and am kicking myself (a neat trick if you can do it with a cast) for having to write and say I’m temporarily crippled. What boy would ever come up to visit a lame girl! And it is rather difficult to hold a boy’s interest for three months without seeing him, especially if you’ve only seen him once! Oh, I just hope he doesn’t forget me completely.
You might try having a large snapshot made of this negative:* it commemorates the one really ecstatic weekend I’ve had this year. The picture is taken from an odd angle, so we both look double-chinned and glassy-eyed, but at least we were smiling.
I probably won’t write for quite a while, but don’t worry at all about me. I have an appointment tomorrow with Miss Schnieders, but I think beating reason out of this institution is pretty hard. What do they care about my education – they’ve got my money! – I’m pretty cynical about this whole year. But springtime – with vacation from Wed p.m. March 25 to Wed pm April 9, should be a blessed respite – I plan to work ahead on my creative writing and modern poetry unit, and Mademoiselle, so it should be peaceful, restful, social, and pleasant. And I will be Able to Walk! God, I actually can’t believe I ever will again.
Well, after the next 3 weeks are over, I may decide to come home for the 3 days between semesters – but I’ll probably stay here, save bus fare, and maybe work on a creative writing paper ahead. If I live that long.
Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me for a week or so – no news will be good news. Do hope dear grammy is better.
XXX
Sivvy
P.S. Got my package Thursday night. Merci beaucoup!
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Friday 9 January 1953*
TLS, Indiana University
Friday 5 p.m.
Dearest mother . . .
I am sitting in my room, looking out at a scene of snow pouring down with ice and sleet and thinking of how sometimes people are really wonderful after all. Today I walked to my science class thro
ugh great drifts of snow, and really, I don’t know how I made it. I was so exhausted that I felt ready to fall down in a drift and let the snow cover me for once and for all. Life seemed so mechanically difficult that I was ready to throw in the sponge and not go to classes at all. But then I trudged around some more and saw some authorities, and was amazed at the consideration I received.
This afternoon I plodded to my English class, after which I dragged myself to see Miss Schnieders. Honestly, she was amazingly sympathetic, and called up Mr. Sherk on the spot, and I am going to talk to him tomorrow and she is going to bring up my case before the Administrative Board. I think that if I make an arrangement to audit (just listen) to the science class next semester, without taking exams, or doing work, or getting credit, that they will let me waive the requirement on that basis! Needless to say I won’t know for a week, but I am hoping desperately. Imagine . . . I’d only have to go to four lectures a week, and get a general personal appreciation, and THAT WOULD BE ALL. Luckily I am dealing with very broad-minded intelligent people who can see my point. Cross your fingers for me. It would mean I could rejoice about something. And then I could take a Milton course, or one I really loved.
The next news is also nice. I talked to Miss Mensel today about how worried I was about taxi fares for the next month and a half, and she said, “Now let me see, we have a fund for something like that . . . I just got a check from a graduate this vacation for a good-time fund . . . ” Whereupon she handed me twenty dollars to be used for taxi fare! Now at least you can think of me being driven in state to all my classes, by taxis which are paid for not out of our bare pockets! Isn’t that lovely.
At this point I am so exhausted from all my stomping around and soliciting aid that I can Hardly think, but at least I feel that tomorrow (meaning next semester) may be better. Oh, if I just have to audit science I would be so happy. I am going to study like mad for the exam next week in spite of my unit papers which I have to write . . . at least now I have an incentive. I can think: this may be the last time I have to open this blasted book! And I need this good luck so desperately. I almost kissed Miss Schnieders. It’s people like that that I would slave all my life for.
One thing, people accept my leg with my own attitude of mirth. I am determined to be cheerful at all times and not to complain once, no matter how tired I am, or how very much harder it is to accomplish tasks that others take forgranted. It is amazing how a state of mind can affect one’s whole attitude to life. I have decided not to dread each day and wish for it to be over, but rather to savor each small delight, thinking how much better off I am than someone who is blind, or starving, or terribly lonely. This is my young life, and even a broken leg is not going to make me wish it away. Even if I am confined to a small area, I am lucky to have such a beautiful room where I can look out at the warm lighted colors of shop windows, and at trees silhouetted against the sky. My room is beautifully comfortable, my meals are all prepared for me, my few friends are faithful . . . dear Enid, and Charlotte Kennedy, and even Mary, who is being very nice. So just think how much better it is for me here than languishing in sadness at home. It’s not every girl who gets free taxi service! All in all, my leg has made me realize what a fool I was to think I had insurmountable troubles. It is a sort of concrete symbol of limitations that are primarily mental, or were. And now that I see how foolish I was in succumbing to what I thought were mental obstacles, I am determined to be as cheerful and constructive about my mental difficulties as I am going to be about this physical one. Naturally I will be a bit depressed and blue at times, and tired and uncomfortable, but there is that human principle which always finds that no matter how much is taken away, something is left to build again with.
Well, this probably will be all for a while, but rest assured that I am taking taxis, and doing as well as possible . . .
much love,
your very own sivvy
But there is that human principle that no matter how much is taken away there is always something left with which to build again
TO Myron Lotz
Friday 9 January 1953
ALS written on Smith College,
College Hall letterhead,
Indiana University
Friday evening
Dear Myron . . .
First let me call your attention to the fact that this is official-college-hall-news-office-letter paper; that is college hall tower in the corner; I send out news releases two hours a day in said hall; I often, in special cases, filch a sheet or two of paper for my more abstruse and recondite correspondence. (My sentences are heading toward the terse simplicity of Hemingway, wot?)
Second on the agenda: re the paper enclosed. I really hate to send it back! I would like to have it bound, and refer to it often in conversation and papers: “As Lotz stated so succinctly in his cogent essay . . . ” Seriously, Myron, I have had occasion to read the essay over several times, and each time I enjoyed it more! I found the ideas challenging and stimulating, and appreciated your lucid anatomizing of the issues most greatly. I especially liked your treatment of the “physical immortality on earth” of the nightingale and the “specialization and individualism” of man” on pages 7 and 8. Also the sentence on page 12 struck me forcibly: “. . . in this amphoteric position man is constantly yearning to attain a condition of complete happiness, which the earth obviously cannot provide him, but yet constantly thwarted by the realization that the attainment of this condition in heaven (which is itself but a conjecture) involves the destruction of the physical form which would realize this pleasure.” How can I explain the mental elation I felt on reading that last . . . not to mention the rest of the essay! I agreed strongly with most of the ideas you set forth, which led me to wondering if there were crucial issues (and if so, what) upon which we would radically disagree . . . it might be rather fun to find out sometime. Anyway, thanks for letting me have the privilege of reading the essay!
I don’t know whether or not Perry told you, but I am at present sporting a rather fabulous fractured fibula. The fatal event took place on a mountain in Saranac Lake almost two weeks ago. Obviously I was learning how to ski. It was fine until my friend urged me to ride the tow. There was a flash of ecstasy as I stood on the top of the glass hill and saw levels of snowy mountains stretching away into grayness, and the flat, sensuously winding river far below, pale green, reflecting the greenish sky. Then the plunge. Gaily I plummeted down straight (I hadn’t learned to steer yet.) There was a sudden brief eternity of actually leaving the ground, cartwheeling (to the tune of “You Belong to Me”* blaring from the lodge loudspeaker) and plowing face first into a drift. I got up, grinned, and started to walk away. No good. Bang.
Luckily I was staying with a young doctor and his family next to the tuberculosis sanatorium, so I had all kinds of expert medical treatment. The doctor (who became a writer when he had to leave medical school for a few years with t.b.) even let me read the novel he wrote about his sanatorium experiences – a passionate, James-Joycian study of introspection involving every controversial subject from sex to God to modern art. He’s going to try to get it published soon, but I am sure it is too spectacularly intellectual for more than small, elite group-appeal. For one thing, his vocabulary is unbelievable. While undertaking the cure for tb he undertook also the task of learning the dictionary from cover to cover. As a result, I, (who thought I had a pretty good vocabulary!) was forced to search for multitudinous words in Webster per page. Which brings up the question of the artists purpose as far as communicating with humanity is concerned. (Dr. Lynn is fed well and has a wife,* which is a case in point for your theory of the leisure class . . . )
At any rate, I arrived back at school a few days late, only to find your coruscating letter. Myron, I laughed so hard! Really, I can’t think up adequate adjectives to describe my high opinion of your literary technique. I did relish your missive! Particularly I was taken by the way your Miltonic conception of heaven and hell corresponded to my own – only I am in the habit of quoting my reference from one of my favorite poems, the Rubaiyat: