by Sylvia Plath
Just a postcard in the midst of my rigid reading program to let you know what a lovely weekend I had with Sassoon in spite of the beastly weather: had lunch at Yale with Sassoon, saw Mel, (who hugged me publicly, gave me a note saying I was wonderful,* & disappeared!) – drove through rain to NYC & got there in time for a lampchop dinner & a preview of Chekhov’s Seagull starring Montgomery Clift – playing in a Greenwich Village Theater* – then a bottle of exquisite French wine & reading aloud of poetry – Sunday we spent 2 hours eating a huge dinner at Steuben’s Tavern* – a feast beginning with herrings in sour cream & ending with icecream eclairs, white wine & coffee – the drive back to New Haven on the Merritt Parkway was pretty: all green trees & white dog wood, (although I slept most of the way) – a charming finale to our month’s acquaintance: (Sassoon leaves for Europe in a short while) – and I was happy, as I haven’t been since that strange unfinished interlude in NYC spring vacation – although nothing can ever equal it, it’s a comfort to know it can be at least approximated. See you Sat.
xxx
sivvy
TO Philip E. McCurdy
Thursday 13 May 1954*
TLS with envelope, Smith College
thursday morning
10:30 a.m.
dear phil . . .
overhead the malignant gray skies of this last week are giving up and dissolving away in clouds like curdled cream, and a cold sun deigns to shed sundry spasmodic rays, all most aloof and icy . . .
as if by telepathy, I’ve felt like the lovely gullible lady in the circus all morning: the one who lets moustachioed virtuosos hurl deft knives at her outlines: only my mesmeric master seems to be aiming solely for the forehead over my eyes, and the knives plunge, halt and quiver: headaches, ah yes . . . and how I sympathize and am concerned for you. do you work in a good light? and Please get more sleep . . .
I am no one to talk: I have a reading program of 10 hours a day for the next two weeks, and after even one full day of rigid discipline, I am stiff from sitting, longing for some magic chance to “jump the life to come”,* i.e., the inevitable intensive cycle of reading, writing papers, and review: I know I have to live through it, and probably will, but it is psychologically difficult to finish War and Peace in the middle of the afternoon and instead of going on a fine, stellar, wine-cellar binge, to pick up 950 pages of microscopically printed Anna Karenina, and proceed without even a coffee break . . .
at night I am so cerebralized it is annoyingly difficult to go to sleep . . . and I remember with nostalgia those days on lookout farm when I was struck with an uncomplicated physical exhaustion which swallowed me in a dark and dreamless sea of sleep until I woke refreshed and rejuvenated at dawn. I envy you your tennis . . . I need physical exercise to balance this suddenly study-saturated spell . . .
so pleased that norm will take up nancy . . . I honestly love them both, and she is visibly taken with the idea. also liked norm’s poems a good deal . . . most especially “don juan to his lover”. norm has a happy facility of combining the familiar with the unique and arriving thereby at a felicitous juxtaposition: “as the stars, in exquisite dispassion” is perfect, and so is the quaint and quite poignant understatement of the excellent last verse: in fact, I would like to memorize that last verse to quote it along with my favorite auden’s* “lay your sleeping head my love, human on my faithless arm” on appropriate occasions!
one bright spot: had lunch in new haven last saturday and drove to new york with the strange parisian sassoon (your drawings were wonderful, only he’s deceptively boyish looking: his eyes only give him away, and his wicked laugh). we plowed through rain and traffic on the merritt parkway, arriving in time to drop our luggage at a 44th street hotel, get tickets to a play, and gulp a lambchop dinner. the play was the preview of chekhov’s seagull starring montgomery clift (!) . . . good, but not outstanding: all characters behaving in one way or another like caged seagulls: all frustrated and unfullfilled. the audience was the upper layer of the lower greenwich village level. after which we retired in the rain to our hotel for the inevitable french poetry and wine . . . sunday we woke up at noon and spent two hours gourmandizing at steuben’s, starting with herrings in sour cream, onion soup, etc., and ending with ice-cream eclairs and coffee, white wine having been strewn all along through . . .
I was so tired, having slept about two hours all night, that I curled up in the backseat of the little car driving to new haven and fell deeply asleep. I awoke to consciousness of sunlight and a circle of people staring at me in unfeigned curiosity. sassoon had stopped at a merritt parkway gas station for coffee, and the sight of a touseled girl sleeping soundly in the backseat of a volkswagon in the midst of empty wine bottles and books of baudelaire attracted attention, to put it mildly. unabashed, I woke up fully, saluted all in blithe abandon, and proceeded to drink the coffee sassoon had brought . . . all of which was a much needed bohemian respite to my more academic obligations . . .
smith college, by the way, has seen fit to award me their biggest scholarship for next year, so I won’t have to feel constrained to work during the summer: all of which is most fortunate, seeing I’ll probably be paying out for summer school, and, in a burst of fervor, have spent several hundred dollars this semester on books and records . . . and, alas, linen dresses. I can now claim the distinction of literally having one dollar apiece in my checking and bank accounts and absolutely no prospect of any money coming in unless I sacrifice my maidenhood on the streets in scollay square . . . and that I’m not prepared to do quite yet.
your courses for next year sound excellent: I know you’ll love the slavic. as for me, I’ll be taking a superlative course in shakespeare, a unit in prose fiction, a german course in goethe and shiller (if I pass the one this summer), a thesis on dostoevsky, and auditing in philosophy . . . I plan to be much more unsocial then, and really devote myself to academic pursuits. which, alas, is what I said this semester . . .
I just can’t wait for the summer when I can read the multitudes of books I’ve bought, and practice writing poetry. very selfishly, I’ll be terribly sad if you and norm don’t get jobs around cambridge: we all could have such a lovely time jaunting about together. I’d like to have the chance to get to know norm in the way I know you, as a choice acquaintance who is also a kind of confidante . . . and again, I do look forward to introducing him to nancy, whom I wish you also would have time to be with . . . but I understand only too desperately well about your exams . . .
I’d really love to have you call me: it’s always so exciting, even though I am more myself in letters. the dinner hour (6 to 7) is generally best, although I’ll no doubt be studying at home from now on till my first exam next saturday, and all the time after that . . . probably if you call toward the end of my stay here, nancy’s plans and mine will be more definite . . .
don’t bother writing if you’re as busy as I know you are . . . I’ll see you after the 27th and hear from you via telephone perhaps I hope before then.
meanwhile, please take care of yourself for me, and send my greetings to norm . . .
much love,
syl
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Tuesday 18 May 1954
TLS on Smith College News Office
letterhead, Indiana University
May 18
Dearest mother . . .
All sorts of little bits of news which will gradually clarify the situation arising after I get out of my last exam: first, I’m so glad you can come to call for me on the 27th . . . probably you can see Nancy for the first time then.
I’ll have a few days to buy wedding & birthday presents and plan the food and events before my favorite girl arrives on Tuesday afternoon, June 1. Phil will call later this week and I hope to get Nancy a date with Norman Shapiro for either Tuesday or Wednesday night. David Furner, her Boy, will arrive Thursday, June 3, the evening of which I want the very special birthday dinner (I may possibly be the partner of Dave’s older brother Jack if he can make it, but I shall
scare up someone from somewhere, so there’ll be four of us, plus the family, whatever it may at that time consist of.) Friday, June 4, is the Day we want to use the car (If only it’s nice!) to drive to Nauset Beach, starting at 6 a.m. or so with a huge lunch-supper picnic. Saturday morning, both Nancy and David will leave for Hamp. So that makes four nights for Nan and two for Dave. I do so want to play the best sort of hostess again, and cook myself, at least the desserts, so that the burden won’t be on you. But I want Nancy and David to have the best time ever: it’s really an honor to me that they’ll spend these last days together at my house!
Next, I think I’ve persuaded Nancy to forsake the sterility of Akron Ohio and come to summer school with me this summer! We would room together much as Marcia and I planned to and have a wonderfully stimulating social and intellectual time. If only Phil and Norman would get fine jobs around there, too!
Worst news is that Gordon isn’t coming home at all this summer: not till next December, in fact. He sounded* a little homesick about the Navy’s new orders. But perhaps, with the summer working out the way it’s apparently going to, it might be all for the best for me to save getting reacquainted with him for another time when I won’t have quite so many seductive friends around. Once I get to know him again, I won’t feel quite so possessive!
My main worry now is money. I just don’t see where it’s all coming from. If over three hundred goes out this summer, with my having spent that much this semester, and probably requiring that much again for spending money for all next year, I think I’ll be hopelessly in debt to you by the end of my senior year. No chance of Europe for me, I guess. I’ll have to be a waitress all next summer and try to scrape together $800 or so to pay back debts. Then, if I get a scholarship to grad school, I should at last break about even. I may, in this case, apply seriously for a Fulbright to England so I could travel freely in Europe for the several 6 week vacation periods which wouldn’t cost big travel expenses. As Gordon will still be sailing all around in the Navy, I won’t have any romantic attachments to consider, and could go to Harvard Grad School the year after I get back from England . . . with a rich background for a Master’s thesis to be done at Harvard the same year Gordon tentatively plans to enter there.
Ah, well . . . on to exams. So glad you all had a good time here: I certainly did. Took a two hour nap after you left. See you in (heavens!) ten days!
love,
sivvy
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Wednesday 19 May 1954*
ALS (postcard), Indiana University
Wednesday
Dear mother . . .
Just a note in the appropriate midst of Escape From Freedom* to let you know I won one (1) poetry prize this year* on the basis of my sonnet “Doom of Exiles” which I wrote this spring – only $20 I think, but it will keep me in new shoes for Marty’s wedding. Also, I just got elected president of the Alpha Phi Kappa Psi Society – honorary society of the arts – which has the advantage of being a very honorary post with a minimum of work & a solid gold, ruby-studded pin from Tiffany’s which is handed down from president to president each year – minor events compared to the splash last year, but events never-the-less – Tomorrow I have sherry with Mr. Gibian my thesis advisor – Then the reign of terror: exams. See you in a week –
xxx
sivvy
TO Melvin Woody
c. Thursday 20 May 1954*
TLS, Smith College
thursday
dear mel . . .
out, out, brief silence!*
life’s but a canceled postcard; a dead letter
that waits and frets its hour in haven house
and then is read no more: it is a tale
told by a yale man, fresh from an unsound brewery,
signifying . . .
god knows what
(apologies to W. S.)
oh malt does more than melvin can*
to justify my ways to man.
wine, mel, wine’s the stuff to drink
for fellows whom it hurts to think:
look into the wickered bottle,
love those whom you wish to throttle:
the air is clear, and there’s no haze
(save that which shrouds my yesterdays)
oh I have been with Calhoun’s* fair
and left my Lawrence* god knows where,
and carried halfway home or near
pints and quarts of wine (not beer!)
then the world seemed sweet and good,
as if I’d acted as I should;
and down on studio cots I’ve lain,
happy till I woke again.
then I saw the stranger’s eye:
my god! the tale was all a lie;
the world it was the old world still,
I was I, and I felt ill,
and nothing now remained to do
but begin the game anew.
-------------------- (apologies to A. E. H.)
* D. H., if you must have a double entendre. That’s where I live now, too, you know. Unless you want Marty to continue proofreading your postcards before I get them!
anyhow, my charming one, your address makes no difference to me now, only mine does: remember it? de rien! (please excuse the par(adis)ian influence. but it will crop up!) . . . it’ll change to 26 elmwood road on may 27 anyway . . . or isn’t that telling you subtly enough?
it seems we are doomed to misinterpret each other. I hadn’t thought I was being silent; I had thought you were. I’m just enough of a feminine creature to give men the prerogative for inviting me to commune: you’ve given it, so I commune.
this is brief because I have four exams and weeks of back reading to do plus a paper in the next week, and I’m only human, and so have made myself incommunicado till the 27th when I shall either be a genius or a gibbering idiot . . .
just send me a consoling note to see me through, huh? shall I see you at marty’s betrothal or before.
love,
syl
“rien ne nous rend si grands qu’une grande douleur . .
les plus désespérés sont les chants les plus beaux,
et j’en sais d’immortels qui sont de purs sanglots.”
vive l’amour!*
TO Gordon Lameyer
Saturday 22 May 1954
TLS, Indiana University
saturday
may 22
dear ishmael . . .
I had just begun to resign myself to not seeing you for another year or so (and not succeeding very well) when your more cheerful information arrived today,* about your leave in june. I hope at least you can manage that!
summer school doesn’t start for me till about the first week in july, and so all of june, when I’m not at weddings, I’ll be home, or trying for occasional weekends at the cape. I have purposely planned a minimum of events so that I’ll probably be able to see you whenever you arrive. somehow I wish I could actually watch the boat arrive at the docks so I could throw slipperfuls of champagne or wreath your nautical neck with garlands of sea-anemones! my only real obligations are from june 1-5 when nancy hunter, my roommate, will be my houseguest (along with david furner, her amherst junior . . . know him? from DU*). I have promised to entertain them with regal birthday dinners, official teas, and cape excursions if it’s beau soleilish. a possible hamp trip on the 7th-- expendable wedding of friend claiborne who’s been secretly married for a year or so . . . just to satisfy the hungry public. then a three day sojourn in hanover, as I’ve no doubt said, from the 14th-16th to bridesmaid it at marcia brown’s betrothal. c’est tout! c’est assez!
then: sun and bathing suits and reading and reading all the books I’ve accumulated unread during the semester . . and, I hope, somewhere, catching as many glimpses of you as possible.
do let me know as soon as you do when and where you’ll come up from the sea, trailing albatrosses, mermaids, reduction gears, and lord knows what else . . . strange, but you have become almost a mythical
figure to me: an eclectic blend of ulysses, kilroy, icarus, neptune, ishmael, noah, jonah, columbus, and richard halliburton! so you must, in all kindness, emphasize your mortal finitude when next we meet!
last weekend, I obliged nancy by doubling with her for david’s visiting older brother, a product of the deadly harvard business school . . . the weekend being the “fabulous” amherst spring prom with bluelit palms and fountains inside and japanese lanterns and a real moon and mist-floating hills outside: dancing under the stars in nets of silver, ah, those fitzgeraldean scott-free hours . . . even a carnival in the square, me in ecstasies of terror on circling ferris wheel, a blaze of revolving lights, up, over, poise and swing, tilt and teeter on the brink of an enormous nothing . . . and scream because--it’s a woman’s prerogative, and a wonderful valid excuse for vocal exercise . . .
warren and mother came up saturday for float night weekend, and of course it poured, but the floats were exquisite, and mother loved the crew races, the gracious dinner on sunday and a walk along the more pleasant paradisial vistas . . . warren insisted that he escort me, as we never commune basically when we both have dates, and I arranged a budding rapport between warren’s young existentialist roommate and a beautiful neurotic freshman in the house: it promises well, and I have such fun discreetly plotting . . .
just finished my hawthorne, melville and james exam, and came away knowing more than I did when I went in, which is the test of a good exam---relating, as well as extracting, knowledge. I love arvin so . . . wish I could somehow take a course with him next year! had great fun with comprehensive question on egoism, and am won over especially by the exquisite artistry of James . . . so much to discuss with you . . . will we ever have time?
now the stoic plunge into nietzsche and marx and hegel for my worst: history on thursday, and tolstoi and dostoevsky for tuesday . . . plus a paper on fromm’s “escape from freedom”* which I’ve been promising myself to read for four years.
speaking of russian, I spent the latter half of the afternoon yesterday at my thesis advisor’s house drinking sherry and feeding babies; it was marvelous. a bleak, rain-lashed day, and mr. gibian and his brilliant czech wife,* two boy twin babies, and a precocious young devil, peter. my maternal instincts, which I keep forgetting I have, really emerged, and I was holding the deliciously warm twins and feeling them bottled milk (after five glasses of sherry I felt an overwhelming impulse to strip and nurse them myself!) and then playing riding games with the rewardingly enchanted peter, whom I could have practically hugged to death, he was so abominably lovable. I hope I have all boys (except for maybe one girl, just to have a vicarious rebirth) because they are such exceptional free spirits when brought up in a stimulating environment . . . in fact, I wish it were somehow possible for me to teach or something at a boy’s school--I get along with young boys so much better than with girls: did I tell you about the charming twelve-year old chap I rode back from new haven with two weekends ago? (I always forget where I left off with you!) we had the most vibrant conversation: I’d forgotten where one was at the age of twelve, it’s all somehow a blur for me now under the age of 20 . . . and I was bewitched by the flashes of mingled maturity and pure child-likeness in this young scion: son of tom fawcett of fawcett publications,* by the way! anyhow, I really plan to enjoy a multitude of sons . . . as free companions: none of this insidious “momism” or apron string business for me.