The Letters of Sylvia Plath Volume 1

by Sylvia Plath

  today it is like spring. I sit in the warm sun with the window open and the lovely greening air wafting freshly in. great wells of creative power are splurging up in me. I want to free myself for writing as much as I can this vacation.

  last night was unbelievably lush. myron, poor guy, was four hours late, and I was lying on my bed crying, thinking he had sped up and gotten killed somewhere or just wasn’t coming, when he arrived at suppertime. for three hours we drove in layers and levels of bluish moonlight, through woods, by lakes, talking and radiating luxury. he left at nine, and looked at me with an amazing softness in his eyes . . . amazing for one who, the boys said, has a heart of mineral rock. someday I am going to quote back to Perry his words to me at Christmas: “Oh, don’t expect to see Myron much. He doesn’t go around with one girl . . . never been in love, just infatuated. Never had intellectual companionship . . . ” The great stone invulnerable man is coming up at noon saturday to drive me to New Hampshire and Vermont, to maybe see a show in a hick town, eat popcorn, do what we feel like doing. I thought of heading to Exeter, but it is too far, alas. also, his older brother is coming to play ball in springfield this spring, so he’ll be living there. myron plans to come up fridays and stay with him, bringing studying, and so on. he’s also promised to take me to a ball game over there. also sometime to take a trip to New York City. Next weekend I’m going to the prom Friday, staying in the master’s house (a lush arrangement) and going to the ocean, to see Bob and Jill,* Perry and Shirley . . . . and in general, having a lovely time: imagine, the weekend will cost over $50! Poof . . . money goes like water. all in all, I am very joyous about the turn of events, if somewhat unsettled by my news of dick. really, though, the Nortons had no right to assume any concrete promises of plans for the future had been made. Dick always was carefully noncommittal, and so was I.

  do write any gossip about myron. I just like hearing his name . . . . .

  love,

  sivvy

  TO Aurelia Schober Plath

  Sat.–Sun. 28 Feb.–1 March 1953*

  TLS with ALS postscript,

  Indiana University

  saturday morning

  dearest mother . . . .

  sun streams warm and slantingly golden into my lovely room, and I sit basking and writing. your lovely long letter came today, and I am once again forcibly made aware of what a superlative mother you have been to me. in the great whirlpools of responsibility you have had these last ten years and more of “bringing me up right”, you deserve the most verdant laurels. honestly, I appreciate your rational understanding of me so much. in return, I have always felt I can be completely honest with you and want more than anything to make you proud of me so that some day I can begin to repay you for all the treats you’ve given me in my two decades of life.

  I am most elated today, for this morning I bought the most exquisite formal on sale . . . you will be pleased: it’s full length, white nylon net very full skirt, and swish strapless silver lame-ish top. marked down from $50 to $30. if myron will go to our april prom with me I’ll save it till then. if not, I’ll wear it next weekend. nothing like a new springy dress to elate one.* (see back picture)

  I now am waiting for myron who is driving up to day with bob and jill modlin to go on a jaunt north. I am most eager to meet that lovely couple, and myron gets such pleasure out of sharing his car with people! we should have lots of fun.

  last night and yesterday I finished this month’s Mlle assignment: a story I just wrote about a Big Weekend: I took a dance at Harvard Med School to get the bizarre touch they like so well, and tried to make it quick-moving and sophisticatedly glittery, somewhat like Den of Lions, only much smoother, dramatic and better: I feel I’ve come such a long way since then! Mailed that with my Ideal Summer* this morning: thanks again for saving me by typing it!

  as you may imagine, the whole dick affair distresses me no end. I feel a great pity for him, and a sad sort of maternal fondness: but you know how fatal that has been to love in the past. I feel, ever since I made the irrevocable decision not to marry him last summer, that I am suddenly blissfully free of an overwhelming bear trap. for one thing, as I said, I wouldn’t want to marry perry’s brother because I have always been fond of perry, even though I would never marry him either because he is too intensely singleminded for me (and I am very happy he has found shirley, because I like her: she is my type of person.) as much as I love the nortons, I am glad I’m not marrying into their family. barring the hereditary liabilities involved in tying up with dick, I feel that our protracted togetherness would be abrasive, more than anything else. we are too alike in the unfortunate ways. I have analyzed this thing for two years now in my notebook, and I am soon going to need another notebook. in case you are ever over at the Harvard Coop, or could persuade Mr. Aldrich to get it for you, I would like an exact duplicate in the form of my book now: about the size of typing paper, ruled, etc.

  anyway, I give a great gulping breath of relief when I realize how I might have ruined my life by marrying dick. his letters now are pathetic. last one* asked me whether I’d rather have him be a teacher or to go back to medical school if it meant a two years absence and not being self supporting. asked if I’d be single and available in five years, and practically said I could call the tune of the rest of his life. naturally I feel responsible for him, and so am going to advise him to take up a branch of medicine that won’t demand as much of his health as general practitionering would . . . say surgery. he really wouldn’t be half as happy as a teacher, and would always feel subconsciously that he was forced into “second best.”

  I do think that a lot of this fear of losing me is an obvious result of his incarceration, and subsequent loneliness and time for thought. if he were leading a normal active life he would be able to meet new girls and I am sure would not flagellate himself masochistically this way. naturally I am not mentioning myron’s coming up so often. there is no need to tell the truth where the truth only hurts.

  of course perry is a dear about this. I was appalled when dick never told the lynns about perry . . . so they didn’t even know he had a brother other than david. then too, dick asked me not to speak about perry in his presence, and just tightened up when I asked why. I think he is intensely jealous of my relationship with perry: the calm, intimate platonic fun we’ve had together, and perry, fiend that he is, played on that this summer a little. also listened to me when I was so broken up about the fact of dick’s hypocrasy in setting himself up as a pure paragon when he’d gone out and slept with other girls all the time. (I am amused by his remark about the one hour in the women’s ward: he told me of a cabin not far away which is signed up by desirous couples: a bed and a locked door. he also wrote a poem about raping Ann* in said cabin. innocent as the driven snow, wot?) it probably is rather mean of me, but I wonder if his parents still think he is a virgin. anyhow, I am glad that as far as I’m concerned that episode in my life isn’t protracted . . . I hope I can date him still and keep him as a friend as I probably won’t be married for a long long long while yet. I have a lot of growing up to do still . . .

  sunday morning

  same sunny scene: bob and jill couldn’t come after all, so we had the day to ourselves. never have I had such an exquisite time. the sun was clear and bright, and the barns red, and the mountains purplish-blue, and the firs deep green as we drove up into Vermont. it was the first time I’d been there since that day Betsy Powley and I crossed the snowy border and had my ugly picture taken against the post. we headed on up into Brattleboro, stopping to see if we could buy maple syrup candy. the trees were being tapped all along the road, so we stopped and investigated to see what the clear syrup tasted like . . . very watery, and all the cans full to the brim. every new bend in the road brought something new to exclaim over. both of us were going for the first thime this way, and it was such a lovely adventure. we drove up to mount tom when we came back and watched the sun set and the big moon come up and freeze the birch trees into a startl
ed white. all most lovely. about nine o’clock we (or rather I) prosaically remarked that we hadn’t eaten at all since breakfast, for which I’d only had a cup of coffee, so we drove to the smoky low-ceilinged red-checked tableclothed Joe’s and had a huge tomato, cheese, bacon and hamburg pizza between us, with milk. by that time both of us were nodding sleepily, so we decided I would go home to bed and he would drive back. really, we felt so sensible . . . I came in shortly after 10 and exhaustedly fell into bed, and he drove off.

  anyhow, we talked over plans for next weekend, and I am really aghast at the itinerary myron plans: I will arrive at lunch time friday, meet people, go to a party or two, (and if I have my way, take a nap) go to dinner, get dressed for the prom (which lasts from 11 pm to 4 am!) after which we all will cook breakfast at bob’s with perry and jill. saturday if it’s nice, myron wants to drive me to new york city and explore times square and the adjoining environs! sunday we will drive out to east rock in new haven and he will study psychology and me milton . . . . honestly, I am overcome by the delightfulness of it all. I think we are both very drunk with the vistas opened by the car, and are gaily planning trips to the cape, to north carolina and to canada! honestly, it’s laughable. as mike (I call him mike now) says “Everything suddenly becomes . . possible.”

  electoral board begins his week, so I’ll be up to my neck in business. I’m so glad I can do it, though . . . getting to know all the girls in my class, etc. I am one of the two secretaries* of it, by the way. it’s such fun to be in on the smokeroom decisions of a nominating committee. as I said, I have no regrets at refusing to run for one of the big four offices: I hope to be making money on Press Board and working on Smith Review next year, as well as doing a topping thesis, and all sorts of creative writing. I feel life is too short to try to be a Public Figure: I’ve had enough of that this year. Really, I have a feeling I could very well have been elected head of Honor Board, since I have experience in back of me and the whole campus seems to know who I am. Did I tell you this lovely little incident? I was sitting in bone clinic last monday and started talking to a sweet freshman from newton. we exchanged names and she exclaimed: oh, you write for Seventeen and Mademoiselle, don’t you? I have read all your things and felt so proud you were going to Smith too! Whereupon I blushed with becoming modesty. As I left I heard her telling the nurse: “Oh, she’s a wonderful writer, does stories for all sorts of magazines . . . ” Really, does one’s heart good. Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.

  Glad you like the villanelles. Wish the Atlantic and New Yorker would do the same. Can’t wait to hear from them . . . felt that I am getting more proficient with the singing uncrowded lyric line, instead of the static adjectival smothered thought I am usually guilty of.

  So proud of Warren. Ah, me, my whole self is full of merry little pots bubbling on the fire of my enthusiasm. myron, poetry, spring, Mlle, milton, tseliot, electoral board, possibilities if only I work hard enough. This summer I want to read and write like hell on a rigorous schedule. summer school with you will be good discipline, too. Can’t wait . . .

  xxx

  sivvy

  p.s. Dick is barely 6 feet tall & weighs 190; Myron is 6' 4" and weighs 185. Also can carry women weighing 140 lbs. Ah, me, comparisons!

 

  silvery top-winged softly, with a tiny high waist and a swoosh of white net with a very palish lavendar overtone! Exquisite!

  p.s. Can’t wait – christening it next weekend!

  TO Aurelia Schober Plath

  Monday 2 March 1953*

  TLS, Indiana University

  monday afternoon

  dearest one . . . .

  just a brief merry little note to say that all goes well. electoral board had the first meeting last night: a group of 25 outstanding seniors, juniors, and a smattering of sophomores and freshmen that draw up the final slate of 16 nominees out of our huge class. it is a notoriously strenuously taxing job involving meetings from 7 p.m. to after midnight for two weeks, and as I am one of the alternate secretaries it will be a rugged pull. however, the interviewing of housemothers and housepresidents about the characters of the girls as we narrow down the slate is stimulating. I am glad to have the chance to see how the thing is run, and since it is only for two weeks it shouldn’t disastrously affect my marks, as it is rumored to do. I have somehow gotten a month ahead in my davis papers (the villanelles and the Mlle story helped) and so I really have only two courses to worry about: the milton exam and the 20 page paper I’m going to do on Edith Sitwell.* even so, with this fabulous three day weekend coming up, it’ll be a ticklish job.

  the dress is hanging up in my window in all its silvern glory, and there is a definite rosy cast to the skirt . . . (no, it’s not just my attitude!) today I had my too-long hair trimmed just right for a smooth pageboy, and I got for 12.95 the most classic pair of silver closed pumps with just enough heel so I won’t have to dance on tiptoe, as I would have had to in ballet shoes. with my rhinetone earrings and necklace, I should look like a silver princess . . . or feel like one anyway. I just hope I get to be a junior phi bete this year so I can use it for my phi bete dress too. (do you realize I got the ONLY A in the unit from mr. patch!) hope I can do as well this semester.

  by the way the great literary genius gordon dropped by yesterday to return a scarf I’d left with him and to ask me out this coming weekend. I was really sorry to refuse: he is by far the handsomest, tan physical specimen.I’ve ever gone out with. it was so amusing: mary and I were just talking about how I’d probably never see him again since it had been three weeks and no word, and poof! there he was. I only hope I get a second chance.

  only wish you could see me in my exquisite new dress. just realized that the whole weekend, including trainfare, dress and shoes will cost me fifty dollars, too. but at least the dress and shoes will be wearable for years and years yet. I had planned on getting a spring formal this year, anyway.

  god, how I wish I could win that Mlle contest. this year would be so ideal, while I’m still in touch with college. on my last assignment, which I will do as soon as I come home for vacation first thing, I want to write up an extra article or two for bonus.

  bye for a while,

  your busy loving

  silvershod

  sivvy

  TO Aurelia Schober Plath

  Tuesday–Friday 3–6 March 1953*

  TLS with envelope,

  Indiana University

  tuesday afternoon

  dear mother . . .

  the most tantalizingly sad thing happened this afternoon, I really can’t help but sit down and immediately spill it over to you. I got my two villanelles back from the New Yorker today with a rejection that wasn’t even mimeographed, but that was written in pencil and initialed by one of the editors. It said, and I quote:

  “Although we were impressed by many things in Doomsday, I’m sorry to say the final vote went against it, as well as the other poem. We were somewhat bothered by the two rhymes that break the scheme---especially ‘up’ which is not even an assonant rhyme here. Do try us again and thanks for letting us see these.”

  Honestly, I’ve never come so blasted close, and it’s almost worse than missing out altogether. “Final vote”: those heartless men! Ah, well, to keep my courage up I immediately sent them the third villanelle. The worst they can do is reject that too.

  friday morning

  hello again . . .

  Just a note before I run off in my little taxi to the train station. The day dawned fair and bright, and I am all neatly packed and gathered together already . . . having tried on my dress yesterday afternoon for the admiration of all and sundry. About ten girls are going from the house, so we are all in a companionable flurry of activity. That’s one very lovely thing about living in a dorm: all your pleasures are shared and thereby magnified no end. I love Lawrence House now, and would rather live here than anywhere else on camp
us: it took half a year to get to feel this way, but it was more than worth it. The girls are all exceptional, and I feel so at ease and friendly with them: imagine, half of the house is on Dean’s List, and over half of the Juniors are honoring! Compared to the scholastic lethargy in other houses, this is a relief . . . also the friendliness of the girls, the way they want to see a new-bought dress, the way they help each other out, is so heartwarming. There is definitely a cooperative atmosphere, which I notice when I go back to Haven and other houses on campus . . . other houses are nice, but nothing like this. In fine, I am more than happy here.

  Last night I plead guilty of a sore throat which I didn’t have so I could get out of house meeting and go to bed early. I took two sleeping pills two hours apart, as you said, and woke this morning fresh and gay as a bromidic daisy. I felt I deserved it, as the Electoral Board meeting wednesday lasted till one in the morning (from after supper!) and I biked home on the dark deserted campus with my own house key feeling very privileged. I love the 25 girls on the board, and we meet early Sunday to interview the 30 candidates we’ve narrowed the jr. class down to. Of course this means leaving Yale early Sunday morning, and I don’t like that, but, it will be good for Myron to know I have a few activities besides him! Lou Giesey is on the board too, and I was glad to see she had made the same choice about running for office that I had: I think both of us would have had a good chance of getting into the 16 speech-making finalists. But as I said, after a careful weighing of the problem, I decided emphatically against it, even though the glory of being one of the Big Four was tantalizing no end.

  By the way, I want to set your heart at ease about Myron’s and my weekending. Really, I think we are both very sensible and cool-headed and rational: even if it did take a long time to persuade him I needed a pizza! I got to bed shortly after 10 on that Saturday night, which is a noble feat. Also Mike is a very capable good safe driver, and he loves the car so much you have nothing to worry about there! We are admittedly not night-owls, and both cling to our quota of at least eight hours sleep per night. So rest, rest, perturbed spirit! I don’t want to get tb either. One thing, Dick’s sojourn has radically cured me of any secret longings to escape the world and write in a peaceful sanatorium. I will write this summer while taking typing and shorthand and I really think that I will get more done than when I’d have acres of unscheduled time. I plan to have a nice active two months at home, going to town with you mornings, studying, reading like mad and writing. I really would like to try getting into the Ladies Home Journal this summer!