The Letters of Sylvia Plath Volume 1

by Sylvia Plath

  as always, I’m luxuriate and replete in the green haven of my secluded back yard: private enough to sit like a cross-legged buddha on the chaise lounge before my typewriter, clad in halter and shorts, to write and study, yet neighborly enough so that I can hear ann aldrich crying in concern as mrs. aldrich learns to ride my bike under libby’s direction, and so that the-old-mr-magowan* can teasingly remind me of a hypothetical date we’ve been about to have for several years. all the virginia-woolf delight in a symphony of unrelated sounds, sights, and flavors being sympathesized (explication: sympathy, symphony, synthesis . . . for a future story) into an ecstatic unity by the observer (a sort of mrs. dalloway-plath, here).

  I cherish the lunging roar of the powermower as peter aldrich mows our lawn, the blasé drone of the cicada, the junior greek chorus of children playing hide-and-seek in the foliage, sunlight incandescent on blue and pink cornflowers, kindling warm yellow in the veined green leaves of swiss chard; fragrance of steak broiling, fresh cut grass and sunwarm flesh . . . all the minor-keyed daily delights which I want to share with you as I would the details of an african safari . . .

  mother and I, are getting along more constructively and creatively well than ever, as perhaps you noticed last week. an analogy which seems relevant: there was a time when the new american colonies needed very badly the close, protective surveillance and direction of mother england; but as they gained maturity, a tempestuous revolution was needed to break the umbilical cord binding them to the maternal security and protections; once the initial battle for a new, reciprocally independent, relationship was won, peace ensued, and harmony has been developing ever since. so here, with my revolution (and a belated one it was) over, I feel that I can be generous, loving, benevolent, without fearing for my ever-strengthening newfound independence and self-reliance.

  at this moment it seems impossible that war, or destruction, or death, could explode upon the frank, sunlight peace of this dear american world, perverting life into a lurid, hellish inferno and blighting the sensitive structures of art and life that it has taken tedious centuries to build . . . but, idealistic as we are, we also, I am sure, are founded in a firm, constructive realism which takes into account all the difficulties that could occur, as well as all the delights . . . and this makes me, for instance, live by a healthy humanism which savors each day for its own revelations and essentially exquisite details, so that if curtains should ever begin to fall before the normal last act of ripened old age, I can at least say to you: every day has been lived to the hilt, freshly and keenly. that is the difference between sacrificing the present to a nebulous, spectacular (and dubious) future, and living fully in the present, even while planning hopefully for a future which may, after all, never arrive with the wished-for retirement in state on a tropic isle . . . as for me, I’d rather have a sandy nauset now than a hypothetical carib isle later . . .

  also, by the way, if ever you wanted to bring reese* up again, or any of your other naval attaches, I’d be almost surely able to arrange delightful dates for them with some of my friends in wellesley with whom I’m reestablishing contacts . . .

  one good thing I’m learning about myself: even when I’m away from you, I prefer the delights of solitude to the solicitude of other men . . . something which I had never proved to myself before. this, according to marriage counselors, is a most healthy sign, because it shows that I can be active and happy on my own (even though I would much prefer to be active and healthy with you!) and therefore do not lean on male admiration as an ever-necessary crutch to my psychic and physical vanity.

  this observation has arisen from my dealings with nancy’s problems and concomitant hysteria. she came rushing over to widener where I was studying thursday, all panic-stricken because david, the amherst boy, had said that he was coming up this weekend, and she would much rather see jim, who had been at the apartment when david called; so I went out for a cup of coffee to calm her and to be as constructive as possible in answering her frantic questions. the essential root of the matter is that nancy always wants to be actively made love to all the time, so that when she has to be away from david, she immediately seeks out another boy to become concerned about (you know, “when I’m not near the one I love, I love the one I’m near”). the only unrealistic thing is that she wants both boys to be ready to marry her at the same time, while she reserves the right of final choice whenever it is convenient. luckily, I have the aesthetic distance needed to be a close friend of nan’s, and I’m willing to spend time listening to the tense “whatever will I do, syl”s because I love her dearly. those who do not know her well enough to enter into the inner sanctum of her private emotions, and those who have not lived daily with her, take her reserved calm as the key to her personality, as I first did. it is only now, after having lived with her, that I am beginning to realize that the apparent calm and sweet reasonableness are surface-deep, like sunsilver on a dark, moody lake, and that her calm is a result of tensions which break open at home in shrill, neurotic screaming. this is a very good thing for me to deal with, because my own inner serenity and calmness is being developed more highly to compensate for nan’s eternal crises. and love for her, cancels out the inconvenience which her demanding self-concern occasionally causes, so please don’t ever worry about my rooming with her next year, darling!

  perhaps you have noticed by seeing me as honestly and unadornedly as possible, that the excited and enthusiastic attitudes I have toward life and people are a natural and healthy personality trait for me, and do not by any means imply that I must have, as corrolary, sour, moody depressive depths. only when I am overtired, I become a little numb, and that is easily taken care of by knowing my limits, and getting nine hours of sleep as often as possible, which is an easy price to pay for a jolly life!

  the reason I am telling you these little things, which you probably know intuitively anyway, is because I want you to have every bit of information possible about me before we eventually begin to live together, so that whatever depths of myself you may not have seen (I don’t see how there could be many) you will find a natural outgrowth of my character, and not an unpleasant shock!

  and now, my favorite one, lest this become too long a chapter to read at one sitting, I will turn to my german translation, wishing that you were again here to be patient with me as you were so dearly last week. writing you more frequently has been my consolation for missing you a great deal.

  I do feel that it is good for us to study together, because it will be more natural to do so then after we’re (I still find it hard to articulate!) married! we’ll learn to know our mutual working habits, as well as our lovely playing habits.

  a letter came today from my dear, beautiful Claiborne who is living now in newyork with her jewish husband, avrom handleman. she, perhaps more than any, is a girl who needs love and support from her few, but most devoted friends. and I want to show how I believe in her by making an effort to visit her every time I go to new york city. perhaps you an I could plan to make a trip there early this fall, before school starts, as I would like so much for you to begin to share my small circle of close friends . . . I know only too well how all of them will love you!

  but I am happy to think that perhaps I can love you more strongly and versatiley than most could . . .

  you absolute darling!

  Love from

  your Sylvia

  p.s. – you can call me at the apt. again –*

  TO Gordon Lameyer

  Wednesday 11 August 1954*

  TLS with envelope,

  Indiana University

  wednesday afternoon

  dearest gordon . . .

  if I time this properly, you perhaps will read it when you get home just before you call me at the apartment, and I can predict now how elated I will be at the sound of your voice and the then immediate prospect of seeing you, because, to be honestly profane (or profanely honest), I have missed you increasingly like hell . . . I feel so intensely about
you, and about sharing life with you, even just from day to day, that when two weeks separate us, my impatience to be with you again becomes, at times, almost unbearable.

  so I sublimate by pretending that this is really our apartment, and that I am shopping for you, saving up daily vignettes to share with you, buying books with the intention of reading them aloud together before bed . . . and that you are just studying at the library, or teaching, and will appear on the scene at any moment . . .

  you letter today* was so dear . . . in spite of the fact that a cool reasoning practicality grows in me to balance the eversoaring intense love I have for you, I sometimes wish to brush aside the material obstacles of time and future obligations like bricabrac from a beautiful, strong shining wooden table . . . and just savor immediately the naked wonder of living with you every day . . .

  darling, if we can become ecstatic about the common necessities of life together, like morning coffee (or milk!) and shopping, how amazing will seem even the smallest of good fortune that comes our way! I am so glad you share your daily grievances with me, because I want to relieve you of annoyances as much as possible by understanding and listening to them, and by being a sort of shockabsorber between you and the petty demands of the routine world . . . and you will be the same for me . . . somehow, if we were sharing our lives together, all problems, no matter how serious, would be just that much more bearable and capable of being worked out . . .

  I want to stay at the apartment as long as possible just to be an hour nearer to you every day, after you are stationed here . . . and probably will be able to stay till september 14, which will give us two unbelievable weeks of continuous proximity. also, since only joan is here, there would be ample free space for you to stay here in, if you like . . . and I’d love to have you come for meals if you were able . . . or I’d love to eat on the ship (If your fellow officers wouldn’t be bored or embarrassed by the presence of a frequent female!)

  german becomes increasingly difficult, and the passive beastly voice finds me with an inherent misunderstanding of the english grammar, not to mention the german . . . three exams between now and the final to make or break me . . .

  violin music whimsically lilting, cucumber sandwiches having been eaten for lunch, a new-bought book on my desk for use to read aloud in together, and darling, I shall simply explode like a feminine H-bomb if you don’t let me right now tell you very hard again and again that I love you love you love you love you love you!!

  your very own adoring . . .

  sylvia

  TO Aurelia Schober Plath

  Monday 30 August 1954*

  TLS with envelope,

  Indiana University

  monday afternoon

  dearest mother . . .

  thought I’d sit down on this cold clouded day to write you a note about affairs here since last I talked to you. practically speaking, all has run off well. I’ve cooked meals for gordon all weekend, and learned a good deal . . . my main problem was using frozen meat, which malevolently didn’t thaw completely even after a couple of hour out of the refrigerator, and required more cooking therefore . . . we had a very lazy weekend, doing absolutely nothing except eating, talking, reading, sunning and listening to records, and I again realized that it takes a few weeks of utter relaxation to put one in shape in between big pushes of work . . .

  I cooked the veal, the chicken, and had the steak for sunday dinner out in the yard . . . beginning with cold potato soup, and progressing to steak, peas, macaroni and cheese, and ending with chocolate pudding and icecream and some rather lopsided and deformed (but good) chocolate-frosted cupcakes I made . . .

  luckily gordon got a car from a friend on the ship who wanted it driven up to boston . . . and I persuaded gordon to leave it with me till the ship came up to charlestown the middle of this week, which means that I’ll have easy transportation to the market, the dentist (ugh) tomorrow, and cambridge tomorrow afternoon. we ended by driving to dr. beuscher’s ourselves friday . . . luckily, because my talk with her lasted longer than usual . . . I do love her, she is such a delightful woman, and I feel that I am learning so much from her . . .

  saturday, pat o’neil biked over and had a charming visit with gordon and myself . . . I was in a mood to pamper myself this weekend, and so went to bed early and read j. d. salinger and carson mccullers short story collections* in the sun . . . I just didn’t feel like disciplining myself to more difficult intellectual reading . . . this coming week, however, I hope to start dostoevsky in cambridge, and pick up german again, which I dropped for this week after the B exam, as if I’d been burned . . .

  coincidentally enough, I was reading the monitor in the backyard saturday, and found that the usual foreign language article was translated in both french and german.* I tried the german, and had a thorny time, especially with the big built-up words and still (for me) awkward constructions. I was pleasantly surprised, however, to see how the french translation flowed out in idiomatic english. I’m sure that an intense review course, plus speaking (I do feel I’ve got good pronunciation, considering my four year lapse) would make me quickly proficient . . . somehow, it seems more native to my own expression than german, but of course I had it for three years longer, and so the comparison is hardly fair . . . I do hope you and warren will read german with me . . .

  and speaking of him, I’m really sorry not to have heard from him in so long . . . you are lucky to be near him . . . gordon and I are planning to be at cantors from friday till sunday next weekend, so do tell warren that our trip won’t be complete unless he can drive over to see us for a while . . . I do miss him so much . . .

  mrs. colburn called up, and just wanted to say hello, and the funeral for ken is today at 2, so said elaine mcintyre (57 addington street, brookline . . . in case grampy wants her address). I really didn’t think I should call about it, and hope he won’t be sorry at missing the funeral . . . the drive up would have been gruelling.

  I do want you to know how I appreciate time for a retreat of sorts here . . . of course the house is lonely without you, but I have been such a social being so continually since last winter (the month of June being an intensification, not a cessation, of my social obligations and contacts,) that I really feel the need to be in a social vacuum by myself for a few days when I move solely at my own lazy momentum, with no people around. naturally it is only too easy to want company to alleviate the necessity for self-examination and planning, but I am at the point now where I have to fight for solitude, and it thus becomes a precious, if challenging, responsibility . . .

  my main concern in the next year or two is to grow as much as possible in as many directions as possible, to find out, essentially, what my real capabilities are, especially in writing and studying, and then to plan my future life in consistency with my abilities and capacities. this is a very important time for me, and I need as much space and concentrated solitude for working as possible . . . I feel that you will understand, if only I can learn to use the right words to communicate these desires and tests to meet for myself . . .

  if I can learn to create lives, stories, and excitement out of myself, without depending on external stimuli as shots-in-the-arm, but rather as provocative-yet-dispensable additions to a life already whole and rich in itself, then I will be surer that I am maturing in the direction I want to go . . .

  meanwhile, I want you to know that I love you really very much, and have wished occasionally that I could just whisk on a magic carpet to the cape to give you an impulsive bearhug, because you are, and always will be, so dear to my innermost heart . . .

  much love to all,

  sivvy

  TO Aurelia Schober Plath

  Wednesday 1 September 1954*

  ALS (postcard), Indiana University

  Wednesday

  dearest mother . . .

  just a note to let you know the hurricane* didn’t blow me away: tried to call several times to tell you house was all right, but your lines were down – Bill Crui
ckshank* (the dear) nailed down temporary cover where the shingles blew off our roof & I raked up as many of the branches as I could yesterday – we lost our birdhouses & one big birch – that’s all – I luckily had eaten up almost all perishables with Gordon last weekend, & so cleaned out the refrig & brought the leftovers here – our house was still without electricity when I left – luckily I had Gordon’s friend’s car to transport me to the dentist in the hurricane – all through, now, thank heaven! Spent all day today scrubbing apartment from top to bottom cleaning up after Kay* & Nan in preparation for having Gordon to dinner tonight – will miss car – it was such fun, now to shopping – I’ll call from Chatham this weekend

  xxx

  siv

  TO Gordon Lameyer

  c. Monday 20 September 1954*

  TLS, Indiana University

 

  MEMO: TO AN ENSIGN WHO MAKES IT MORE AND MORE FINE TO BE HERE IN THIS UN*BE*LIEV*ABLE & QUITE INCREDIBLE COFFEE AND CAVIAR COSMOS . . .

  these are pictures of a Girl who once had dark hair and forgot it; she is here in these monotone shots being very dark-haired, playing with a real rose (which she likes to think flames in her hair forever only she is mortal too so it is also a rose of jeopardy and all the million other things roses--- especially dark red roses---are)