The Letters of Sylvia Plath Volume 1

by Sylvia Plath

  I remember only too well how weary and dead-tired Frank made me stopping on hills. Always the motor stalled and I had a frantic fear of plunging uncontrolled backward. Over and over again he forced me to let up just enough clutch and push down just enough accelerator to feel the car poise and balance and hold safe while I sat at a 90 degree angle. It’s the toughest thing---that and parallel parking which I never use . . . always finding a way out. Not worth the fuss.

  By all means don’t go around thinking “Oh, the poor driving teacher, he is no doubt sure I’m the stupidest pupil he’s ever had.” Just know that this is his job, and if you make it more of a challenge, fine, he deserves it. Think of what you’d feel like trying to teach him shorthand. He just might be a little slow to catch on. I knew that I would never get a license, and was sure that my impractical naive approach to the intricacies of a car which stalled mysteriously in the midst of honking traffic would bar me from the modern age. Not so. Here I am, parking on Beacon Street. Not just because I’m young, either. I practiced.

  Do try to get some of the fun back into it. I hated myself, car, and instructor very often. Now it’s easy to forget and gloss over because I have my license. Maybe a supplementary lesson with Warren would give you time to breathe and practice up on one or two of your problems. Like Frank, he should be kind, but firm.

  Do keep on with the lessons, if only 2 or 3 a week. Nothing is worth turmoil. I’ve learned that. Your present life is the important thing, and it must be relaxed and happy . . . not becoming so only after countless postponements. Remember, I couldn’t even run a business machine. Speaking of those, for our sakes (Warren’s and mine) I would like you to get a statement from your doctor that you are not to take on extra or new work this coming semester. Older professors are to get concessions not complications. The girls here agree that it would be impossible for them to “dismiss” you as you say for a doctor’s order. You could be very sorry, but Get That Statement. Explain to him how you feel and say what you want. I hope you let me know soon about this, or I shall feel forced to write Fran. I want you to spread your force out over many years, not just throw it all recklessly into this one . . . .

  Please, by the way, forget about typing those two stories. I’ve decided to rewrite the “In the Mountains” one so it will be suitable for SEVENTEEN in spring vacation. It is not suitable now, and needs much more development of the inner struggle of the girl. It was an attempt to be understated and cryptic as Hemingway which is fine for a lit. course, but not for 17.

  Then too, I am not sending the Mary Ventura story to the Christophers. I think it is much too fantastic and symbolic for what they want. They want warm simple stories that will inspire people to go out and do likewise, and I don’t think they want everyone in the U.S.A. jumping off speeding trains in the subway!

  These last three days, I have done up some very good stories if I do say so. I wrote two for the Christophers, tailored for specifications, both based on a Bible quote, very plotted, and noble, but not preaching. One is about a housewife (“Home Is Where the Heart Is”) who comes to mental crisis, faced by a family that seems to be seeking life outside the home. She manages creatively to bring them all back together. The other is even more dramatic---set in a hospital waiting room with flashbacks (I’ve read up on TV requirements and limitations and been realistic in my sets, main characters, and immediate interest angle) called “Tomorrow Begins Today”, about what one teenager can do in channeling energies of high school students from destructive to creative channels. Both are under 10 pages, very decisive and forthright, and I think I have a much better chance than possible with a vague symbolic tale like 9th kingdom . . . .

  Also have rewritten my two best Kazin stories and am sending both off to MLLE’s short story contest, answering Cyrilly Abels recent letter* that she is looking forward to see my new stories “eagerly”. I am very proud of both of these stories . . . have digested thoroughly and rewritten critically (as you suggested, there has been a cooling time lapse since the 1st copy) They seem to like a balance in their two winning stories, so one of mine---“The Day Mr. Prescott Died”---is a sassily-told humorous one (with real human interest, seriously, under it) in the first person. The other, a very dark story, is the best work of “art” I’ve ever done, I think. It is called “Tongues of Stone” (my favorite title yet) and is all very bleak and beautifully written, with a crisis and turn for the better at the immediate end. This was the one Mr. Kazin wrote his lovely letter to me about--- saying that, thank God I was a writer, but that writing was invented to give more joy than that story---so I took his advice, and changed it from life to art . . . gave it a conclusion of dawn, instead of eternal night, which to me just makes it right . . . .

  I have a feeling that I may be destined to be more successful in writing than I thought at first. If any of these come through, I may well be able to go to Europe in spite of Dean Rogers, write there, learn French and German, and come back a better person. The reason why Miss Chase advised England is the free time to write there, which I long for. If either Oxford or Cambridge should accept me, I will go without a Fulbright. That I know. I shall get $2,000 somehow if I have the chance to go!

  The Columbia application came today, so with fast work at the beginning of the week, before classes start for me Wednesday night, thank God, I should be able to get the necessary letters underway. They ask for thesis or other academic work, and bless Miss Page for having me make an extra carbon! It shall go. Only at Columbia you have to write an MA thesis, as you don’t at Harvard, so my writing time would be almost nil. And writing is the first love of my life . . . I have to live well and rich and far to write, so that is all good. I could never be a narrow introvert writer, the way many are, for my writing depends so much on my life . . .

  Chin up, mother, and get well for me! Do all you can to put me at ease about that! Love to all.

  your very own –

  sivvy

  p.s. Haven’t heard from Journal yet – it’s now a full 2 weeks!

  TO Aurelia Schober Plath

  Wednesday 2 February 1955*

  TLS with envelope,

  Indiana University

  Wednesday morning

  Dearest mother . . .

  Hope by now that all is well with you, both physically and autoly. Snow has come here, and the bleak black winter sets in, all of which provide many metaphors for poetry. Nothing more, I’m convinced of it, could happen in a discouraging way. The Journal sent my story back saying that the narrative improved the writing, but it lacked an “indefinable something” that made a Journal piece. At present, I begin to feel that I lack that “indefinable something” that makes a winner.

  Fortunately, I’m happier in the midst of these refusals than I was two years ago on the crest of my success wave. Which just shows what a positive philosophy can do. I’d be scared if I just kept on winning things. I do deserve a streak of rejection, and am fortunate to have a friend such as Sue Weller to stand by me through joy and sorrow both with equal fortitude. Also, I am very fond of a brilliant music major, Dorrie Licht,* whom I’ve no doubt told you about. They make life much more delightful.

  I’ve paid all my outstanding bills, and now have the glorious figure of $17. in my checking and $11. in my bank account. According to my drastically reduced budget, I am $75 short for coming semester expenses, but am sure that at least a couple of hundred in poetry prizes will be forthcoming later this spring, and will be prompt about paying back your kind $25 then, along with the January telephone bill which will be astronomical.

  I have felt great advances in my poetry, the main one being a growing victory over word’s nuances and a superfluity of adjective. On the risk of your considering “Temper of Time” “depressing”, I am sending you the 3 latest examples of my lyrics.* Read aloud for word tones, for full effect. Understand that “Temper of Times,” while ominous, is done tongue in cheek, after a collection of vivid metaphors of omen from the thesaurus, which I am rapidly wearing out.
It is a kind of pun on the first page of the NY Times which has news much like this every morning.

  Someday Phyllis McGinley will hear from me. They can’t shut me up.

  The Christophers wrote a nice letter about receiving the stories, saying “God Bless You” and “Sincerely in Christ,” which struck me as rather ironic in the midst of all this flurry of rejections, literary and academic.

  However, my typewriter won’t be still. This summer I am going to write a pack of stories, read magazines religiously (as every Writer’s manual advises) and capitalize on my growing powers of neat articulation. And I am going to Sell “The Smoky Blue Piano” somewhere.

  Now I can see the advantage of an agent . . . she keeps you from the little deaths every writer goes through whenever a manuscript comes back home. It’s like having your child refused admittance to public school. You love it, and often can’t see why. Read one encouraging story about a successful writer who wrote 10 stories in 10 months and her agent collected 81 (!) rejections and not one acceptance. But the author gaily began her 11th story. Very encouraging!

  Much love to my favorite mummy, and keep well for me. That’s the one thing you can do for me and for Warren! We love you so much.

  A kiss for the tip of your Grecian nose!

  Love,

  Sivvy

  Sylvia Plath

  Lawrence House

  Smith College

  Northampton, Massachusetts

  Apparel for April

  Hills sport tweed for

  april’s back,

  world parades her

  birthday frock.

  Clouds don lace

  and white linen,

  all the sky is

  light blue denim.

  Air is clear as

  honeydew,

  in pink tiaras

  daisies blow.

  Daffodil puts

  on frilled yellow,

  fringe of veil suits

  greening willow.

  Crocus struts in

  amethyst,

  robins button

  scarlet vest.

  Squirrel brushes

  silver fur,

  river flashes

  jeweled hair.

  Sunlight gilds fair

  boy and girl,

  apparels them for

  pastoral.

  Tricked with clover

  in this land,

  with leaf and lover

  wreathed around.

  Lest spring bequeath me

  nakedness,

  o sweet one, clothe me

  with a kiss.

  Sylvia Plath

  Lawrence House

  Smith College

  Northampton, Massachusetts

  Winter Words

  In the pale prologue

  of daybreak

  tongues of intrigue

  cease to speak.

  Moonshine splinters

  as birds hush;

  transfixed the antlers

  in the bush.

  With fur and feather,

  buck and cock

  softly author

  icebound book.

  No chinese painter’s

  brown and buff

  could quill a quainter

  calligraph.

  On stilted legs the

  bluejays go

  their minor leagues a-

  cross the snow,

  inscribing cryptic

  anagrams

  on their skeptic

  search for crumbs.

  Chipmunks enter

  stripes of black

  in the winter

  almanac.

  A scribbling squirrel

  makes a blot

  of gray apparel,

  hides a nut.

  On chastely figured

  trees and stones

  fate is augured

  in bleak lines.

  With shorthand scratches

  on white scroll

  bark of birches

  tells a tale.

  Ice like parchment

  shrouds the pond,

  marred by misprint

  of north wind.

  Windowpane wears

  gloss of frost

  till dawnlight blurs

  and all’s erased.

  Before palaver

  of the sun

  learn from this graver

  lexicon:

  Read godly fiction

  in rare flake,

  spell king’s direction

  from deer track.

  Sylvia Plath

  Lawrence House

  Smith College

  Northampton, Massachusetts

  Temper of Time

  An ill wind is stalking while

  Evil stars whir

  And all the gold apples go

  Bad to the core.

  Black birds of omen now

  Prowl on the bough

  And the forest is littered with

  Bills that we owe.

  Through closets of copses tall

  Skeletons walk

  While nightshade and nettles

  Tangle the track.

  In the ramshackle meadow where

  Kilroy would pass

  Lurks the sickle-shaped shadow of

  Snake in the grass.

  Approaching his cottage by

  Crooked detour

  He hears the gruff knocking of

  Wolf at the door.

  His wife and his children hang

  Riddled with shot,

  There’s a hex on the cradle and

  Death in the pot.

  TO Aurelia Schober Plath

  Thursday 3 February 1955*

  ALS (postcard), Indiana University

  Thursday

  Dearest mother . . .

  So glad to get your last fat letter and hear about the home front. It is amazing how one small human love can make a mountain of black bills & rejections seem small as a speck of pepper! Today Mr. Fisher took me to coffee before our weekly session, asked in detail about my projects for the next year, and is both practical and dear about everything – telling me to run over the minute I hear yes or no about anything to discuss with him before even wording acceptance or rejection – told him how bleak my prospects are, & he was a relief to talk to – I’ll find something through these wonderful people, even if it’s not what I had a preconceived notion about. It is adventure to have the world open. I wonder if some day in May Sue Weller & I may have the use of your blue car to drive to the Southward Inn for interviews? If we decide we need that much money. We are both applying next week for a job teaching 5th grade for 1 year at the American school in Morrocco – it sounds like the most intriguing prospect to put our theories of international co-operation together – pupils come from 20 different countries & the salaries, while very low, are made up for by the type of experience & the nearness to the continent – only a few hours across the straits. Naturally we would only consider going as a pair. Usually these appointments are for 3 years and the 1 year interval is unusual. Wish us luck. Sue is a great girl. Am doubledating this Fri with her & two grad students from Princeton.

  xx

  s.

  TO Aurelia Schober Plath

  Saturday 5 February 1955*

  ALS (postcard), Indiana University

  Saturday afternoon

  Dear mother . . .

  I was really appalled to hear Mr. C. was in the hospital – no wonder his “personality” was so criticized by his students – as with daddy, disease twisted an otherwise good nature. I am terribly sorry I have no money to give – I expect to have to borrow on my $50 deposit what with unforeseen senior expenses. But I do expect to get some money from poems this spring, and will send a check, I hope, then. Got the first really encouraging note from Dean of Radcliffe* today – (Rogers sent her my letter) – saying my not winning the Woodrow Wilson “Would in no way weaken” my chances for a grant at Radcliffe, & the WWS were given mostly fo
r men who might otherwise go into business, law, medicine, etc. Obviously Rogers wrote her why I didn’t get a WW, & It no doubt was not for character blots. only, as I had thought. Poems come better and better, and my courses, if demanding, are fiery and delightful. I feel much better about my prospects now that I have spread my applications out to include an interesting job and Columbia (although my roster of choice goes 1 Fulbright to Eng. 2 Teaching in Morocco 3 Radcliffe & 4 Columbia. Keep all your fingers crossed. Thrilled about Ruth’s coming wedding & feel most honored.*

  xx

  Siv

 

  P.S. Got beautifully typed (!) letter from Warren with no apparent provocation (!) and enjoyed it thoroughly! Shows what patient teaching & practice can do!

  Cookies are delicious – enormously appreciated – Sue & I enjoy them at teatime every day – Thank you!

  TO Aurelia Schober Plath

  Thursday 10 February 1955

  TLS with envelope,

  Indiana University

  thursday, february 10

  Dear mother . . .

  Happy Valentine’s Day! Sue and I are still enjoying your delicious cookies at our nightly teatime and really appreciate your going to the bother of sending them. I hope that by now you have got your overshoes! Life here is in that nasty fickle stage between winter and spring and I have written several very good poems* which I think you will like. I look so forward to going to Mr. Fisher this afternoon as ever for our weekly session.

  I am very proud of my brother, but am afraid I can’t boast as much about marks. My Shakespeare wavers toward a B* and my German is also only a B*. But I like both courses very much and feel that my writing deserves what it is getting by way of time.

  Now for the money. The only way I would accept your kind offer of a monthly loan is that it was unequivocally understood it was a loan and that I would pay it back by graduation. My whole budget was thrown off this year by $100 unexpected expenses ($25 application fees and transcripts, $20 thesis, $25 medicines, and $30 senior expenses such as cap and gown). So quite frankly I have used up all my 2nd semester funds already and have been forced to sell some of my old clothes and possessions to keep myself in postage stamps. In spite of strict budget and absolutely no amusements (I depend on my dates for food, plays, and wine) I would need, after your first $25 check, about $10-$15 a month, I think. I do appreciate this, as I refuse to borrow from authorities and was fully expecting to be hauled into court for my 2nd semester book bills!