The Letters of Sylvia Plath Volume 1

by Sylvia Plath

  I, too, have felt the handicap of having a record in a mental hospital, and probably was the only Fulbright student to have a letter of recommendation written by her psychiatrist! But I decided to be frank, although I feared it might cut me out; I can’t say how I appreciate their accepting the risk (being as I was going abroad to a completely new situation made it even more risky for them) and I heard just this week that by some miracle I am one of the 2o “happy few” to get a renewal for this coming year, so I can finish my Honours B.A. degree. Each month of reliable living & growing, I think, is a solid step away from McLean. Do you remember Carol Pierson, my vital, talented friend at Smith? Well, she is in Belknap now! When I am wealthy, I am going to endow a fund to finance a group of bright, young psychiatrists to work at Smith on a visiting, part-time basis so they can keep up city practices!

  Life here is so rich and complex that it is hard to remember the hard times (and there have been very dark days, however rosy a mere skimming summary may sound). I started out in amateur dramatics when I came, and met many fine creative people this way. In courses, I’m hearing lectures by men like Basil Willey, David Daiches & F. R. Leavis. Cultural life is better than NYC! This term alone, for example, I saw several surrealistic films (2 by my admired Cocteau: “Orphée”, “La Belle et La Bête”) O’Casey’s “Juno & Paycock”;* a student performance of “Troilus & Cressida” rivaling Old Vic; Euripides’ “Bacchae” in Greek with student chorus, sets & original music; heard Vienna choirboys in King’s Chapel, and on and on. It is hardest to choose among the lives offered: politics, too, are most vital & controversial, with communist & fascist groups, arab & israeli disputes, etc. Next term, I’m cutting out all but one unit with a brilliant young woman don in the moralists (which will give me good discipline in philosophy) so I can spend mornings just writing.

  Best of all though, is the continuous proximity of the continent in the three long vacations! Untraveled that I am, I luxuriate in this new mobility: I just take out a map of Europe & plan! I spent Christmas in Paris for 10 days with an artist-writer friend at the Sorbonne, going to plays, Louvre, Orangerie, cafes, & walking miles & miles; we took an express to the Mediterranean on New Year’s & based ourselves in Nice, rented a motor-scooter, & rode along blazing blue Riviera through Villefranche, Menton, Monaco, to Italy in clear sunlight by violent green palms, olive trees, orange groves & frivolous pastel villas. I was so hungry for color, & find the southern temperament so congenial that I’m going to try somehow to get a year for writing in southern Europe after I graduate in June 1957. I just can’t bear to put the Atlantic between me and Europe! Am leaving tomorrow for London, then April in Paris, and am meeting Gordon Lameyer in Germany for a drive to Rome through Venice & Florence for Easter. So you see, the world is coming alive. There is much fighting and inner struggling going on all the time, a kind of forging of the soul through conflict, and, often, pain, but behind it all, there is this Chaucerian affirmation which holds fast.

  I look so forward to hearing from you, and want you to know how interested I am in what you are doing next year. I hope I’ll have a chance to “really talk” to you when you come to Cambridge this June!

  Good luck and best wishes!

  Sincerely,

  Sylvia

  TO Marcia B. Stern

  Wednesday 21 March 1956

  TLS (aerogramme), Smith College

  wednesday, march 21

  dear marty . . .

  miraculously the siberian winter is gone and my gable window opens out on a garden all blowing purple and yellow crocuses in the sun, while the air is full of birds twirping and voices of turtles. god, it is beautiful here, along the Backs, with a kind of golden, mellow, renaissance haze along the swanful river! I’ve been skipping around in this week after the end of a really tough term (lots of classes & supervisions) buying pussy-willows, hearing vienna choirboys sing in king’s chapel, savoring a few very fine people at leisure over tea and sherry, and marshaling forces for the easter vacation: hold your hat and listen to this, because I still can’t quite believe it: I’m heading for london friday (visiting two young erratic poets: one, allen tate’s cousin, e. lucas meyers,* good friend of bert wyatt-brown* who is somehow very much aware of charlie gardner & mike-- via st. james? and a british guy), driving to paris, via canterbury, right over channel, with a fulbright fellow at the london school of economics, spending easter and april in paris with holiday tables and all that, for a week, meeting gordon lameyer somewhere in germany (where he’s flying over to look for a university for next year) and driving through austria, venice, & florence, to rome!

  somehow, fairy-tale as it sounds, I feel I really deserve it after this long, packed arduous winter where I’ve been in the casualty ward twice: once for an emergency appendix which wasn’t after all, and recently for a splinter which got in my eye & had to be operated on while I was fully conscious and staring up into the knives babbling frantically about oedipus and gloucester getting new vision by losing their eyes, but me wanting, so to speak, new vision and my eyes too. the doctor quoted housman* cheerfully: “if by chance your eye offend you, pluck it out lass and be sound.” but I can see fine now, and all is well.

  life here is so rich I can’t begin to describe it: this term I’ve seen two superlative cocteau films (esp. “orphée”), sean o’casey’s “juno & paycock”, a production of shakespeare’s “troilus & cressida” rivaling the old vic, a play in greek: euripides’ “bacchae” complete with student chorus, sets, & original music; vaughan williams’ opera “sir john in love” & much much more! student life here is fast, furious and creative. had sherry with stephen spender (most impressive build, snow-white hair & brilliant blue eyes) on his visit here & am simply loving this life. it’s so hard to find fault, so much is good, but I had a dark time this winter with the flu, frigid cold, & over-crowded classes. but next term, I’ve got a fine brilliant, beautiful young supervisor in philosophy, & have cut out all else so I can write mornings daily, while reading german & french on my own: this woman’s lecture on d. h. lawrence’s concept of the redemptive power of love in “the man who died” is the finest, frankest I’ve heard in my life: she’ll be a blessed change from the majority of newnham grotesque dons who are relics from the victorian era when a woman had to sacrifice all claims to femininity & family to be a scholar!

  by some joyous miracle my fulbright was renewed this week for next year, so I can get my honors BA in june 1957. I’ll be reading here about a month this summer & hopefully seeing mother in england in june (my grandmother has cancer, so things are dubious & hard at home) & traveling in spain with elly friedman, later to greece. honestly, marty, this mobility, with all the countries in the world just over the channel is the most wonderful feeling! I can go out and live in the long vacations, and come back & write in this tranquil atmosphere. so far, I’ve only done a few poems, a story, & a news article & sketch on cambridge (for the monitor, which came out around march 5 or 6.)

  I must admit I’m slightly concerned at my total lack of desire to come back home ever! the thought of the atlantic between me and europe literally makes me have claustrophobia! I’m seriously thinking of schemes which would let me live in southern europe (france, italy or spain) for a year just writing. this heavy critical atmosphere here (influenced badly by f. r. leavis, I’m afraid) can be deadly: I had 2 poems published in the “little mags” & the number of reviews they got was astounding: it seems there are 50 critics & dissectors ready to fasten like leeches to every poem ground out! I find myself loth to go on to any more grad work after this, & want very badly to “find my voice” writing before I teach.

  cambridge is also intriguing from the point of view of politics: I am getting more and more aware: we have arabs & jews arguing here, south african communists who are going back to fight the totalitarian white government that keeps the colored people in appalling chains; indians, orientals (one man is translating greek literature into persian!) all is fluid, mobile: traveling in europe with the mul
tilinguial signs, the chance to meet people from all different national backgrounds & professions, all that! I spent christmas in paris with richard sassoon (at sorbonne) going to plays, walking miles & miles along seine, through montmartre up hill to sacre coeur, listening to whores (fascinating) pickup & refuse, a whole day in tuileries playing with children & going to “grand guignol” puppetshow, endless escargots, wine, cognac sessions, louvre & orangerie with original cezannes. all this, then new year’s morning seeing sun exploding up out of incredibly azure med: living in nice, motorscootered all along riviera to italy, matisse chapel in vence. oh marty, so much: the whole world coming alive, banging through my eyes and fibers! want so to write & write it all down. am very hungry for news from usa: esp. regarding production plans! also, more re carol et. al.! love to you & mike . . .

  SYL

  TO Aurelia Schober Plath

  Mon.–Wed. 26–28 March 1956

  TLS* with envelope,

  Indiana University

  Monday morning

  Dearest mother . . .

  Oh you would never believe it if you saw me now: I have the loveliest garret in Paris* over-looking the rooftops and gables and artists’ skylight! I was marvelously lucky to find a place during the Easter week because everywhere is full and I moved to this room this morning: it costs 520 francs a night which is roughly one dollar fifty and not bad especially at this time. I hear music now rising up in the courtyard; the people here are lovely in the hotel and I am fortunate to have such genial characters running it: they gave me this cheapest room today because they knew I was a student.

  I had a rather bumpy ride here with a Fulbright student from the London School of Economics and his girl, a beautiful flighty british thing. The crossing was wonderfully smooth however & I had a good dinner on shipboard Saturday. I was exhausted Saturday night and felt very much alone. Luckily, I met the nicest man in the hotel lobby who offered to loan me his map of Paris since I’d left mine in Emmet’s car. He turned out to be an Italian journalist, Paris correspondent for the communist newspaper in Rome: Paese Sera; well, since he speaks no English, we both managed in French, and had a really fine conversation: he had read so much American lit. in translation (admires Melville, Poe, TS Eliot etc.) and it is his olivetti I’m borrowing now (some letters are differently placed, hence the mistakes); I was amazed at my ability to carry on conversation & learned new words fast. His name is Giovanni Perego* & he writes mainly political articles but also on artists & writers. He is without a doubt the nicest communist I’ve ever met and I’ve learned so much: he is very idealistic & has fine aesthetic appreciations: fought in the resistance during the war and has been a journalist for 11 years: yesterday he introduced me to his friend Lucio, also a journalist from Rome, and Lucio’s most lovely blonde German sweetheart Margot who is studying french here: we had a good supper at a small cheap restaurant & fine conversation: Lucio was very proud of speaking English which he had learned as a British prisoner for 5 years in the African campaign and told me a good deal about the British & maumau in Africa, especially Kenya. I am learning more every day!

  Perhaps the hardest & yet best thing for me is that Sassoon isn’t here; he is still down south on vacation, so except for a possible Cambridge boy I know is coming, I am on my own. As you may imagine, this is very different from being escorted everywhere as I was at Christmas but I am getting most proud of my ability to maneuver alone! It is good for me and I am beginning to enjoy it thoroughly: the weather is heaven: warm enough to sit out in the sun, and all Sunday afternoon I sketched in pen & ink on the green park on the tip of the Ile de la Cité where dozens of tourists came to stare at my little sketch of the Pont Neuf; I felt happy to sketch for the first time since my Cambridge drawing and feel it is my best passport to paris! Ah well, I’m off to the American Express to see if there’s any mail. Will write more soon. Love to all from your

  Americaine à Paris!

  Sylvia

  Wednesday morning

  March 28

  Dearest of mothers . . . .

  Eh bien, life gets better and better: I am sitting by my window with the fresh morning air blowing the starched white curtains and my own special vista of rooftops & chimney-pots which I draw daily, it has such good tilts and textures: to me it is simply beautiful; there is a large green-eyed cat at the window opposite, a tiger cat, who stares at me when I work and plays games of hiding. I am getting to love this city like no other in the world: it is so intimate & warm and kind with its lacy gray stone buildings, hundreds of black wroughtiron balconies, marvelous gardens & parks and little shops all pastels and even the peeling walls & colored posters pasted over each other seem exquisite to me. My day begins early: I have breakfast in bed about 9: two big cups of cafe au lait, two moist fluffy croissons (which float above the plate, they’re so light) with lots of delectable unsalted butter. Then I write a bit on Giovanni’s typewriter (his day begins in the afternoon & he does his articles at night) which he comes every morning to lend me; it is so nice to have someone in the hotel who knows me, and Giovanni is like a kind father and so helpful. I walk about 5 to 10 miles a day and it is the best way: I can dawdle, look in windows (I live by the way in a wonderful district full of antique shops and small esoteric art galleries) and when a view pleases me, sit down to sketch. I have never felt so growingly proud of my increasing ability to take care of myself: I am so happy that I skip & sing in the parks. I wrote a note to Anthony Gray,* the British boy I just met before I left, & he surprised me by coming over that very night with his sister Sally:* I was napping (from about six to eight pm) because I’d walked over ten miles & was weary. It was so nice to wake up & find them: we went out to dinner together & had a good talk: Tony is tall, blond & blue-eyed, and an Oxford man (his father teaches Zoology at Cambridge*) and very debonair and confident, much the most self-assured fellow, good for fun but I am sure not for serious talk (so many Englishmen think women become unfeminine when they have ideas & opinions); Sally is small, terribly conventional & with bad feet & thick ankles so she can’t walk far; I’m sure my gay joie de vivre & casualness shocks her! You see, I am developing the most happy-go-lucky attitude about details such as clothes, etc: I learned a lot from my last trip (where I loaded myself down with endless dresses pettitcoats & shoes) and am really traveling light: I bought the most wonderful light khaki mackintosh before leaving Cambridge which is cut in high-fashion, with princess lines like an evening coat, with shiny round gold buttons & a back-belt: it is just the thing for this divine warm weather. I can sit on the ground & sketch in it or wear it over my black velvet dress to the theater (which I did last night) and feel chic. I wear my cashmere sweaters with skirts, matching hair-bands and large simple earrings and feel very fine; my ballet shoes are ideal for walking & I only wear stockings at night. My room is dear pale yellow walls patterned with delicate rosebuds and dark green corduroy curtains & dark wood bookshelves!

  Yesterday was like a fairy-tale: I crossed the Seine about 10 am (I’m really on the Left Bank: just a street away!) and walked past the Louvre into the Tuileries: a kind of garden for children with rows of trees, countless white statues, ponds & fountains for sailing boats & swings & the dearest little pony carts which are always trotting around full of wide-eyed babies; I sniffed the fresh spring air, spotted a ginger-bready refreshment stand which had already opened to sell lemonade & cookies, so rented a chair & sat down to sketch the stand: I was just shading it when I heard my name called & looked up surprised to see Tony & Sally who happened to be walking by; we had lemonade & I joined them on a trip to the Eiffel Tower, which is really an ugly marvel of interlaced girders looking like some domestic Martian animal about to start walking off on all fours; we took the elevator up to the observation platform, and there lay Paris at our feet, with the crooked gray-green Seine, the spires of Notre Dame, the acres of quaint rooftops & chimneypots and red & yellow sunshades on the windows like squares in a Mondrian* painting. Sacré coeur rose like a white Byzantine weddi
ng cake on its hill of Montmartre overlooking all. We had dinner in a restaurant up there, with the whole city spread out below through the plate glass windows. I parted from them then & walked along the Grands Boulevards windowshopping & staring at people: Browsed on the Rue de la Paix near the Opera, bought a ticket (balcony for about 250 francs---75 cents!) to Anouilh’s new comedy: “Ornifle.”* Delightful: could understand most of it (at least the plot & most words) & then home to bed. Will be glad when Tony’s sister goes tomorrow because I think he will take me out for a little nightlife.

  Stood sketching in sun by Seine yesterday & met Garry Haupt! The only two people I know in Paris (Tony & Gary) both have run into me this way! I am having such fun. Gary & I went to dinner & good surrealist movie Wednesday night.*

  I’m hoping to hear from Gordon any day about when I’ll meet him – Should be here through Easter –

  Love from

  Sylvia –

  TO Aurelia Schober Plath

  Tuesday 3 April 1956

  ALS (picture postcard), Indiana

  University

 

  PARIS – Notre Dame.

  April 3 – Tuesday

  I

  Dear mother . . .

  I am sitting in a little café about to eat lunch with Gordon whom I met yesterday by a total accident – the American Express having scrupulously sent all mail & notes back to Whitstead (the address I left them last Xmas) so that I went every day for 10 days futilely – I feel terribly concerned & out-of-touch with you since I haven’t heard a word since I wrote about my Fulbright & my eye operation. I am anxious to know how grammy is & how you weathered the blizzards – Please write me a kind of summary airmail to: American Express No. 38 Piazza di Spagna Rome, Italy – you can imagine that I am a bit desolate with all mail in England & no word from you