All language subtitles for Letters.Home.1986.480p.AMZN.WEB-DL.DDP2.0.H.264-TEPES.eng

Letters Home

by Rose Leiman Goldemberg
based on Sylvia Plath’s ’Letters Home’

selected and edited by
Aurelia Schober Plath.

My first thanks go to my son
Warren J. Plath, and his wife Margaret,

whose moral support and assistance
encouraged me to undertake this project.

Deep gratitude is owed to each member
of my understanding, loyal family.

I am deeply grateful to Ted Hughes
for giving me the copyright

for this selection of
Sylvia Plath’s letters.

This book is dedicated to my grandchildren.
Frieda and Nicholas, Jennifer and Susan.

It may seem extraordinary
that someone who died at 30

left behind 669 letters,
written to her family

between the beginning
of her college years in 1950

and her death in February 1963.

We could not afford
long-distance telephoning …

and Sylvia loved to write.

Dearest Mummy,

Only five minutes till midnight,

so I thought I’d spend them writing
my first letter to my favourite person.

If my printing’s crooked, it’s because
I drank too much apple cider tonight.

Dear Mummy,

The most divine thing has happened to me.

Dear Mummy,

Just got your letter this morning,
so I thought I’d drop you a line.

Your letters are fascinating
and they mean so much.

Dear Mum …
Love, Sivvy.

Throughout these years I had the dream

of one-day handing Sylvia
the huge packet of letters.

She could make use of them in stories,
and through them, meet herself.

God, today is lovely!

My nose is still runny,
but with much sleep and nose drops …

By the way, do you suck penicillin,
or swallow with water?

I don’t want to kill myself!
Cheerio! Sivvy.

She could taste again the moments
of joy and triumph, of sorrow and fear.

Just to think I’m almost 18 …
life slipping through my fingers …

little time to stop running …
have to keep on like the White Queen …

Can you make any sense out of this?

Maybe you can analyse your child
better than she can herself.

In her writings, Sylvia fused
parts of my life with hers.

So before telling of her early years
I will first describe my own.

As is often the case in a family having
European roots, ours were Austrian,

my father made the important
decisions during my childhood.

However, in the early 1920s,
financial catastrophe overtook our family.

Dear …
- My father, broken in spirit

and blaming himself unjustly
for his human error …

Dear …
- Handed over the management to my mother.

Mummy.
- Although my father spoke four languages,

we only spoke German at home.

How isolated I felt as I stood
by myself in a corner

listening to the other children
shouting “Shut up!”

Homesickness hit when I walked
into my room, empty and bare.

Gosh, I felt lonely!

When I went home after school
and met my father,

I answered his greeting
proudly with “Shut up!”

His face reddened.
He took me across his knee and spanked me.

Weeping loudly, I asked,
“Papa, was bedeutet das?”

What does that mean?

So much work I should have done,
my schedule looked so insurmountable …

He realized I had not understood
what the words meant …

I am now out of my great depression,

the first sad mood I’ve had
since I’ve been here.

He was sorry, hugged me,
and asked me to forgive him.

Now I come to the most thrilling part.

From that time on we spoke English at home.
Father was our teacher,

and mother and I studied together.

Whom should my 850 dollars come from
but Olive Higgins Prouty!

Good heavens,
she is responsible for all this!

It is an Indian summer day …

blue skied, leaves golden, falling.

So I sit here, sheltered,
the sun warming me inside.

And life is good.

Out of misery comes joy...

I feel that I am learning.

In my junior year in high school,

the world of American and English
prose and poetry burst upon me,

filling me with the urgency to read!

I lived in a dream world …

I’m being stretched, pulled to heights and
depths of thought I never dreamed possible.

A book under every mattress,
a book in the bathroom...

“What is the girl doing?
Oh, she’s reading again!”

If only I can weld the now
into art and writing later on …

Like animals storing up fat and then,
in hibernation, using it up.

I completely identified with
the characters in a story.

If only I’m good enough to
deserve all this!

My wish became to open to other
young people this wonder, to teach.

I just can’t stand the idea
of being mediocre!

It was the beginning of my dream

for the ideal education of the children
I hoped to have some day.

The question is, shall I plan for a career?
I hate the word!

Or should I major in English and Art?

Fortunately, my mother was most sympathetic
and read my books too, saying:

“More than one person can get
a college education on one tuition.”

I remembered that when my daughter
went to Smith College.

You are listening to the most busy
and happy girl in the world!

I have just been elected to
Alpha Phi Kappa Psi,

which is the Phi Beta Kappa of the Arts.

I will get at least one sonnet
published in the ‘Smith Review’.

No one other than W.H. Auden,
the famous modern poet,

is to come to Smith next year.

Imagine saying,
“Oh, yes, I studied writing under Auden!”

Your happy girl,
Sivvy.

Following my graduation,

I decided to teach English for one year

and return to the University
to earn a Master of Arts degree.

Dr Otto Emil Plath taught the course
in Middle High German.

This is a period of sterility emotionally.

I had met Professor Plath briefly,

a fine-looking gentleman
with vivid blue eyes.

Blue skied, leaves golden …

I remember the last day of classes …
When I went to say good-bye,

Professor Plath played about
with a pen on his desk.

Professor Haskell and his wife had invited
him to spend a weekend at their farm.

Should I care to join him,
he would appreciate it.

My date last night looked rather old.

I learned much about Otto Plath
that weekend.

I feel that I’m cut off from all mankind …

It astounded me that he
had married 14 years before.

I don’t even know how I can last one week!
- He and his wife had soon separated.

I feel like putting my head on your
shoulder and weeping from homesickness.

Were he to form a serious relationship
with a young woman now,

he would obtain a divorce.
- My face is a mess …

He thought my thesis proved.
- Broken out …

we had much in common …
- My tan is faded …

and that he would like to know me better.
- My eyes are sunken.

If I were pretty, I wouldn’t mind so much!

Boys are strictly secondary in my life.

I find myself numb as far as feeling goes.

I’m trying to keep my head above water,

emotions are absent for the while.

One less distraction!

Our friendship deepened,
we dreamed of shared projects,

involving nature study, travel, writing.

Life looks so bright when you’re well!

I taught until January 1932
when Otto and I were married

in Carson City, Nevada.

Your bewildered Sivvy.

Then I yielded to my husband’s wish
and became a full-time homemaker.

Dear mother,

I was up in my room
talking with a lovely girl!

She’s one of the people
I can really tell things to …

the misery of being dateless this weekend.

Bill asked me out, but I refused.
He just isn’t my sort.

Then the phone rang, it was Louise.

Three boys had just dropped over
and would I go out tonight.

I threw on my clothes,
ranting on how never to commit suicide,

because something unexpected
always happens!

Turned out that my date was a doll.

I now feel terrific!

What a man can do!
Love, Sivvy.

As soon as I was pregnant, I began reading
books about the rearing of children.

I was filled with the desire
to be a good wife and mother.

What a man can do!
- I followed the “demand feeding”

accepted as modern today,
but old-fashioned in the 1930s.

My babies were rocked, sung to
and picked up when they cried.

Dear Mom …

Sylvia was born October 27, 1932,
a heavy, healthy baby.

At a luncheon,
her father told his colleagues,

“I hope for one more thing in life:
a son, two and a half years from now.”

Warren was born April 27, 1935,
only two hours off schedule, and

Otto was called by his colleagues “the man
who gets what he wants when he wants it.”

Dear Mom …

My dreams of “open house” for students
and the faculty were not realized.

All was given up for “the book”,
a treatise on insect societies.

My height is 5’9” …

We worked together on this …
- my weight 137 pounds.

I did the reading and note-taking …
- I took such pains …

He rewriting and adding his notes.
Then, I put it into final form.

Otto insisted he handled all finances, even
when purchasing meat, fish and vegetables.

The age difference between us,

Otto’s superior education,

led to a “rightful dominance” on his part.

At the end of my first year of marriage, I
realized that if I wanted a peaceful home,

I would simply have to become
more submissive,

although it was not my nature to be so.

Physically, I want a colossus.

Mentally, I want a man who
isn’t jealous of my creativity.

Graduate school and travel abroad
are not going be disturbed

by any squalling, breastfed brats.

I’ve controlled my sex judiciously,
you don’t have to worry about me.

Love affairs would stop me from
my independence and creativity,

and I don’t intend to be stopped.
Love, Sivvy.

The year after Warren’s birth,
Otto began to draw into himself.

Dear Mother,
I have been worried about a friend of mine.

He was losing weight,
continually weary, and easily upset.

Yesterday, she came up to my room.

At first, she was very evasive,
but then her face melted with tears.

He refused to see a physician.
He said he had diagnosed his case

and that he would never submit to surgery.

It seems that since Thanksgiving
she hasn’t been able to do her work,

and now she only reiterates,
“I can never do it, never.”

She doesn’t get enough sleep,
but wakes up early,

obsessed by her work, even if
she can only go through the motions.

I finally sensed Otto’s
unspoken diagnosis …

I got scared when she told me she had been
saving sleeping pills and razor blades.

Lung cancer.

Oh, mother, you don’t know
how inadequate I felt.

From this time on …

I have been thinking of
writing to her parents,

telling them of how tired she is
and how she needs rest.

It was heart-breaking
to watch a once-handsome,

powerful man lose his vigour
and deteriorate completely.

For her mother kept telling her
she was foolish and could do it all.

Appealing to him to get medical diagnosis
only brought on outbursts of anger.

But her mother couldn’t see
how incapable she is of thinking now.

One morning in August 1940,

Otto stubbed his toe against his bureau.

That afternoon I asked to see his foot.

The toes were black,
and red streaks ran up his ankle.

I rushed to telephone my doctor.

“Diabetes mellitus.”

This declaration struck me like lightning.

So this was his illness,
not a cancer at all,

which treated in time, could be lived with.

From that day on life was
an alternation of hope and fear.

Maybe it’s none of my business,
but I love the girl …

and feel inadequate and responsible.

On the nurse’s first day off,
Otto suggested that I get out with Sylvia.

We ran along the beach for half an hour.

Inadequate …
- On my return,

I found Otto collapsed on the staircase.

Responsible …
- Somehow I carried him to his bed.

The doctor could not be reached.

I gave Otto his insulin injection,
he was so exhausted.

In the middle of the night he called me,
feverish, shaking with chills.

That night I kept changing sheets,
sponging his face, holding his hands.

I could only think,
“All this needn’t have happened …”

If you were her mother
she would be all right.

The next day the doctor came.

Only an amputation of the gangrened foot
and leg could save Otto’s life.

The doctor murmured, “How could
such a brilliant man be so stupid.”

If you were her mother,
if you were her mother …

On October 12,
the amputation was performed.

On November 5, his condition was serious.

My telephone was ringing when
I returned home.

An embolus had caused my husband’s death.

If you were her mother
she would be all right.

I waited until the next morning
to tell the children.

When Warren awoke, I told him quietly
that Daddy’s sufferings had ended.

Warren hugged me tightly and said,

“Oh, Mummy, I’m so glad
you are young and healthy!”

Inadequate, responsible …

Then I faced the more difficult task,
telling Sylvia …

She was already in bed, reading.

She looked at me for a moment,
then said woodenly,

“I’ll never speak to God again.”

I’ll never speak to God again.

I told her she could stay at home that day
and not go to school.

From under the blanket she said,
“I want to go to school.”

I want to go to school.

For all my bold talk
of being self-sufficient,

I realize now how much you mean to me.

You and Warren and my
dear Grampy and Grammy.

I am glad the rain’s coming down hard.
It’s the way I feel inside.

I love you so.

After school, she came to me, red-eyed.

She was nine years old.
She handed me a piece of paper.

In shaky printing stood these words:
I promise never to marry again.

I love you so.

I signed at once.

What a superlative mother
you have been to me.

Love, love, love.
- “Love, love, love.”

My husband had no pension.

His 5000-dollar insurance had to be used
to pay his medical and funeral expenses.

In the summer of 1942, I was invited
by the dean of Boston University

to develop a course in
Medical Secretarial Procedures.

At the small salary of 1800 dollars a year,
it was providential.

I don’t want you to worry about
things, Mummy. I am learning a lot.

Now that the hardest 20 years
of your life are over,

you deserve all the returns you can get.

P.S. I will grow up in jerks, it seems,

so don’t feel my growing pains
so vicariously, dear!

All the girls from her year were invited
to Maureen Buckley’s coming-out party.

Dear Mother,

How can I ever tell you what a unique,
dreamlike weekend I had!

Saturday afternoon at 2 p.m.,

about 15 girls from Smith
started out for Sharon, Connecticut.

Marcia and I drew a convertible
with three girls and a boy.

Picture me then in my navy-blue …

bolero suit …

and brown coat,
snuggled in the back seat …

Snuggled?

Whizzing for two hours
through the Connecticut valley!

The foliage was out in full tilt,

yellow maples and scarlet oak …

The afternoon sun on them …

It was more than I could bear.

At about 5 p.m. we rolled up
the long drive to the residence.

God! Great lawns,

huge trees on a hill,

with a view of the valley,
green cow pastures,

orange and yellow leaves …

A truck was unloading champagne!

Champagne!

We walked through the hall …

thousand living rooms …

rare objects of art everywhere.

Marcia and I and Joan Strong.
- A lovely girl.

Had the best deal.
A big double bed and bath to ourselves.

We lay down under a big quilt
in the grey-purple twilight,

talking about the exciting …

unknown …
- evening fast coming.

Joan, Marcia, and I were driven in a great …
- black …

Cadillac, to the restaurant, where a
lovely supper was prepared.

After supper …
- another hour of lying down …

Scarlett O’Hara before the ball …

And then the dressing!

Under the columns of the Buckley home …

girls in beautiful gowns …

everywhere swishes of taffeta, satin …
- silk!

I looked at Marcia,
and we winked at each other.

Walking out in the patio,

with the treetops barely visible
through the glassed-in roof …

Remember Mrs Jack’s patio?
- The same!

Vines trailing from a balcony …
- fountains playing …

Balloons, Japanese lanterns,
tables covered with white linen.

A platform built up for dancing.
I stood open-mouthed,

giddy …
- Wanting so much to show you!

If you had seen me! I looked …
- beautiful!

Even daughters of millionaires
complimented my dress!

I began to wish I had brought a date,

wondering if I could compete
with all the lovely girls there.

By the end of the evening,
I was so glad I hadn’t.

The Senior Class at Yale was there,
including Maureen’s brother.

Ten children in the catholic family,
all brilliant, all writers.

A lovely tall hook-nosed freshman
named Eric cut in.

Turned out we both loved literature.

Back to the floor with Carl …
- the philosophy major …

who invited me to the match
Cornell against Yale.

I refused.
- Nicely.

Next I danced with
the Editor of the ‘Yale News’ …

Now, suddenly …
- a lovely dark-haired boy cut in.

“Name?” I asked.

“Constantine”.

He was a wonderful dancer …

and twirled so all I could see was
a cartwheel of coloured lights.

His father was a general in the
Russian Caucasus Mountains.

I danced steps I never
dreamed of and my feet …

just …
- flew …

A tall boy, who claimed his name was Plato,
did the sweetest thing.

In the midst of dancing he said,
“I have a picture I want to show you.”

So we …
- crossed …

Through the cool, leaf-covered …
- patio …

and entered one of the drawing rooms.

Over the fireplace was a Botticelli.

Madonna!

“You remind me of her”, he said.
- I was really touched.

Imagine meeting such fascinating,
intelligent, people!

And saving best to last, my Constantine.
He cut in and we danced …

Finally, we were so hot …
- and breathless …

That we walked out on the lawn.

The night was lovely.
- Stars, trees big and dark …

So guess what we did. We …
- danced Strauss waltzes.

You should have seen us whirling …

over the grass …
- with the music from inside …

faint and distant …

Imagine, on a night like that …
- to have a …

handsome and perceptive …
- male kiss your hand …

tell you …
- how …

beautiful you were!

I asked him what …
- happened …

when a woman got old,
and her physical beauty waned,

and he said in his lovely …
- liquid …

voice, “she will always be beautiful
to the man she married, we hope.”

I asked if I could tell him
my favourite poem. I did …

And he loved it! Oh …

If you could have heard him talk …
- about life and the world.

Imagine! I told him teasingly not to
suffocate in my hair and he said:

“What a divine way to die!”

Probably all this sounds silly, but I …

never …
- expressed myself so clearly,

never felt …
- such sympathetic response.

There is sudden glorying in womanhood,

when someone kisses your shoulder
and says “You are charming …

beautiful …

and most important,

intelligent.”

It was five when I fell into bed.
I dreamed …

exquisite dreams!

Lord, what luxury!

Back here …
- I can’t face the dead reality.

I still lilt and twirl …
- with Eric, Plato and my lovely …

Constantine …
- under Japanese lanterns,

and a hundred moons twining in …
- dark leaves …

music spilling out and …
- echoing yet …

inside my head …

To have had you there!
- In spirit.

To have had you see me …

I’ve got to work and work!

My courses are frightening.
I can’t keep up with them!

Love …
- love …

love …
- Sivvy.

Today I got a letter confirming my job.
I hope I can earn a lot of money.

The Belmont Hotel.
June 11, 1952.

Your amazing telegram …
- announcing 500 dollars,

‘Mademoiselle’ prize for
‘Sunday at the Mintons’ …

came just as I was scrubbing tables
in the Belmont dining-room.

I was so excited that I screamed and
threw my arms around a waitress

who no doubt thinks I am insane.

The moment couldn’t have been better.

Also, I just learned since I am
completely inexperienced,

I am not going to be working in the main
dining-room, but in the “side-hall”

where the hotel management eats.

So, tips will be much less.

I was beginning to worry about money
when your telegram came.

God! To think ‘Sunday at the Mintons’

is one of two prize stories
to be put in a big national slick!

The first thing I thought of was:
Mother can keep her money

and buy some pretty clothes
and a trip or something.

I will get a winter coat and special suit
at Mintons’ expenses.

Both Sylvia and I were more at ease in
writing words of admiration and love

than in expressing emotions verbally,

and thank goodness,
write them to each other we did!

So it’s really looking up around here, now
that I don’t have to be scared about money.

I held off …
- Even if my feet kill me …

because,
- after this first week,

as she would be 20 …
- and I drop 20 trays …

I will have the beach,
boys to bring me beer, sun,

her response to my praise would be …
- and young gay companions.

“Oh, you think I’m
wonderful or look lovely …

What a life!

because you’re …
- Your crazy old daughter, Sivvy.

my mother.”

As tempted as I am to be a coward
and crawl back home,

I want to give it a month of trial.

Don’t worry about me,
but do send some advice now and then.

June 17, 1952.

Dear mum,
It’s my anniversary this week,

and I am celebrating the
beautiful day on the beach.

I am in a more optimistic mood
than when I wrote you.

I’ve got an idea for a story for
‘Seventeen’ called ‘Side hall girl’.

I even have a heroine named
Marley who is, of course,

me!

In a few days, I will send it to you
to type and get notarized.

Would I like to win a summer course
for writers at Bradloaf!

But this is really a dream,
because boys usually win those things,

and my style needs to mature a lot yet.

As for side hall,
I figure I deserve a break,

what with all my good fortune
winning prizes and going to Smith.

I don’t care what people think about me
as long as I’m nice and friendly.

Love to you all,
Sivvy, your Side Hall philosopher.

June 25, 1952.

Just a note to let you know
I’m still alive.

Never has work worn me out so much.

In spite of everything, I still have
my good old sense of humour,

and manage to laugh a lot.

I have decided to come home August 10.

I will have stayed 2 months,
slaved for 200 dollars,

and will need a month to recuperate
physically and mentally.

With all my demanding school offices,
I can’t afford to crack up.

Now I’m always so tired
that I can’t retain anything,

except what kind of eggs
people like for breakfast.

Your …
- maturing …

Sivvy.

Brace yourself and take a deep breath.

God, will I be glad to get home
for a few days of rest.

I am in a rather tense
emotional and mental state.

The crux of the matter is
my attitude toward life,

hinging on my science course.

I have considered committing
suicide to get out of it,

it’s like having my nose
rubbed in my own slime.

It seems that I am running purposeless,

dreading every day
of the horrible year ahead.

I have become really frantic.

Small choices seem insurmountable,
the core of life has fallen apart …

I wonder why? Why?

It affects all the rest of my life.
I am behind in my Chaucer unit,

feeling sterile in writing …

Everyone else is abroad
or falling in love with their courses.

I feel I have got to escape this,
or go mad!

I don’t even want to understand it,
which is the worst yet.

It seems to have no relation
to anything in my life.

I have wondered if I should go
to the college psychiatrist,

try to tell her how I feel about it …
- how it is obsessing all my life …

paralyzing my action in every other field.

Life seems a mockery …
- I can’t go on like this.

Luckily I haven’t gotten sinus yet.
That would be another form of escapism.

When one feels like leaving college
and killing oneself over one course,

every day more and more piles up.

I hate formulas,
I don’t give a damn about valences,

artificial atoms and molecules,

I am letting it ruin my whole life!

I am really afraid to talk it over
with a psychiatrist,

they might make me drop my activities
and spend my time with formulas

and mathematical relationships,
when I just don’t want to learn them.

To be wasting all this year of my life …
- obsessed by the course, paralyzed by it …

Oh, Mother!

Life is so black.
Everything is empty, meaningless.

How could I ever persuade
the college authorities,

how could I convince the psychiatrist?
My reason is leaving me.

This has obsessed me
from the day I got here.

I am driven inward, feeling hollow.

No rest cure in the infirmary
will cure the sickness in me.

Love, your hollow girl,
Sivvy.

Dear mother,

The world has a miraculous way of working.
You plunge to the bottom,

and you think that every straw
must be the last.

Then you break your leg, and the world
falls like a delicious apple in your lap!

If a hideous snowy winter
and a broken leg is heaven,

what will the green spring be like?
How can I bear the joy of it all!

Much overflowing love,
Your own Sivvy.

Today I had my too long hair cut

and got, for 12,95 dollars,
a pair of silver pumps.

With my earrings and necklace,
I look like a silver princess.

How I wish I could win
the ‘Mademoiselle’ contest.

I got two poems back
from ‘The New Yorker’ today.

Got back the ‘Mademoiselle’
manuscript today.

I don’t see how I have any chance
if I just write one or two stories

and never revise them
for a particular market.

I want to hit ‘The New Yorker’ in poetry
and ‘Ladies’ Home Journal’ in stories.

Birthday Greetings!

My present is following news.

‘Harper’s Magazine’ just accepted
three poems for 100 dollars in all.

‘Mademoiselle’ sent ten dollars, because
it’s the third time I’ve been selected.

Best love to you, Sivvy.

I dedicate this ‘Harper’s’ triumph to you,
my favourite person in the world.

Can’t you just hear
the critics saying,

“Oh, yes, she’s been
published in ‘Harper’s’?”

When I am rich and famous I will hire you
for my private secretary and baby tender,

and pay you very high wages,
and take you with me on my own pink yacht!

Letter to Warren,
written about May 2, 1953.

Dear Warren,

You know that mother
would kill herself for us

if we accepted all she wanted to do for us.

She is an abnormally altruistic person,

and I’ve realised that we have to fight her
selflessness as we would fight a disease.

My ambition is to earn enough so that
she won’t have to work in the future.

After extracting her life
blood and care for twenty years,

we should start bringing in
big dividends of joy for her.

Really, you and I have it good.
Food, clothes, best schools …

our first choices and all sort of prizes.

Just hope the world doesn’t queer it all
before we’ve lived our lives fully.

Telegram to Sylvia from ‘Mademoiselle’:

Happy to announce you have won
a ‘Mademoiselle’ 1953 Guest Editorship.

You must be available from
June 1 through June 26.

Dearest Progenitor,

I’ve already sent in the names
of four writers: J.D. Salinger,

Shirley Jackson, E.B. White,
and Irwin Shaw.

Hope one of them consents to be …

The three days at home before
her departure for New York

were full of frantic activity, including …

New York.
June 4, 1953.

So much has happened so fast!

Gardens, alleys, the Third Avenue, …

the UN with a snatch of the East River,
at night at my desk a network of lights,

the sound of car horns like the
sweetest music … I love it!

Ran up to the sixth
floor and spent morning

with other Editors
filling out endless forms.

Talked with Fiction Editor,
Jobs and Futures Editor,

fabulous Editor-in-Chief.
Afternoon, rewrote poetry squibs.

Assignments announced.
I’m Managing Editor.

At first I was disappointed
at not being Fiction Editor,

but now I see how important my work is …
- I love it!

Affairs scheduled include fashion tours,
UN and ‘Herald Tribune’ tours,

movie preview, City Centre ballet, TV show,
dance at St Regis Roof.

Love, Cyrilly.

I sometimes wonder who is me.
- I have been very ecstatic,

horribly depressed, shocked,
enlightened, and enervated.

I want to come home and be in peace
this coming weekend,

with the people I love
around me for a change.

I can’t talk about all that
has happened this week …

I am too weary.

I have, in the space of six days, toured
the second largest agency in the world,

seen television, heard speeches,

gotten sick from the crabmeat
the agency served us

and wanted to die very badly for a day!

Spent an evening in Greenwich Village
with the most wonderful man in the world,

who is tragically a couple
of inches shorter than I.

Spent an evening seeing …

deformed men with short arms
that curled like boneless snakes

around a begging cup stagger,
thinking to myself

that Central Park Zoo was only different
in that there were bars on the windows.

Oh, God, it is unbelievable
to think of all this at once!

My mind will split open!

I love you a million times more
than any of these slick admen,

these wealthy beasts who get drunk
in foreign accents all the time.

Seriously, I am overjoyed
to have been here a month.

I just realise how young
and inexperienced I am.

Your exhausted, ecstatic New Yorker,

Sivvy.

My mother and I meet a tired,

unsmiling Sylvia on her
return from New York.

I dreaded telling Sylvia the news
that had come that morning.

She had not been accepted as a student in
Frank O’Connor’s short-story writing class.

Sylvia would see it as a rejection of her
as a competent writer,

despite all the writing honours
and publications she had to her credit.

Success in short-story writing
was her ultimate goal,

and Sylvia was too demanding of herself.

“By the way,
Frank O’Connor’s class is filled.

You’ll have to wait for next summer
before registering again.”

Sylvia’s face went white when I told her,

and the look of despair alarmed me.

Belknap House, Mc Lean Hospital,
Belmont, Massachusetts.

December 26, 1953.

Dear X,

I don’t know how widely
the news of my little

summer scandal
travelled in the newspaper,

but I received letters from
all over the United States,

from friends, relations, strangers
and religious crackpots.

I’m not aware of whether
you read about my escapade,

or whether you are aware
of my present situation.

At any rate, I give you
a brief resume of details.

From that point on, I was aware
of a great change in her.

All her usual joie de vivre was absent.
My mother tried to reassure me

that this was no doubt temporary
and due to the strains of last year.

I worked all during the month of June …

We told her to “just let go and relax”.

in the air-conditioned offices
of ‘Mademoiselle’ magazine …

- We packed picnics and drove to beaches …
- helping set up the August issue …

- in New Hampshire and Massachusetts …
- I came home exhausted …

- At home, she would sunbathe …
- prepared to begin my courses …

- always with a book in her hand …
- at Harvard Summer School …

- but never reading it …
- for which I’d been offered a scholarship.

Then things started to happen.

- She finally talked to me …
- I’d gradually come to realise …

pouring out an endless
stream of self-accusation.

She had no goal, she said.

As she couldn’t read or write anymore,
what was she going to do with her life?

She had injured her friends,
let down her sponsors.

She went on and on.
- I’d completely wasted year at Smith,

- Sylvia’s self-recrimination extended to …
- by taking a minimum of courses …

- reproaching herself for the stories …
- by bluffing my way through papers …

- in ‘Mademoiselle’ …
- skipping by with only a few exams …

- She felt it had been unkind …
- reading nothing but jokes …

- to one of the characters in the story …
- in ‘The New Yorker’ …

and writing nothing but glib jingles
in an attempt to commune with Auden.

I had gaily asserted that I was going
to write a thesis on James Joyce,

when I hadn’t even read ‘Ulysses’ …

And take comprehensives, when I wasn’t even
familiar with the works of Shakespeare.

To top it off, all my friends were
either writing novels in Europe,

planning to get married,
or going to medicine school.

The one or two males I knew
were either “genii”,

or were not in the market
for the legal kind of love yet,

and were going to see
the world and all the

“femmes fatales” in it
before getting married.

Sylvia had decided not to attempt
any courses at Harvard Summer School.

To sum up my reactions to the
immediate problem at hand,

- In an effort to pull herself together …
- I decided at the beginning of July …

- she felt that a sort of activity …
- to save a few 100 dollars …

would keep her from feeling
that the summer was being wasted.

write, learn shorthand and
forget the summer school.

Her plan was …
- sort of “live cheap and be creative” …

that I should teach her shorthand

so that she could get a job
to support my writing.

One unforgettable morning,

I noticed gashes on her legs.

Truth was …

I’d counted on getting into Frank
O’Connor’s writing course at Harvard …

Upon my horrified questioning, she replied,
“I just wanted to see if I had the guts.”

Then she grasped my hands,

- hers was burning hot to the touch …
- but it seemed that several thousand …

other brilliant writers did, too,
and so I didn’t.

- and cried passionately …
- So I was miffed …

- “The world is rotten. I want to die.”
- … and if I couldn’t write on my own,

I wasn’t any good anyhow!

Not only was I unable to learn shorthand,
but I also had not a damn thing to say …

“Let’s die together!”

- I took her in my arms …
- in the literary world …

- telling her that she was ill …
- because I was sterile …

exhausted …
- empty …

that she had everything to live for …
- unlived, unwise …

that I would see to it that she wanted to …
- and unread.

- We saw our doctor …
- The more I tried to remedy the situation,

- she recommended psychiatric counselling.
- … the more I became unable to understand

one word of our fair old language.

And the long summer of seeking help began.

The first psychiatrist.

I began to frequent the
couches of psychiatrists,

I became immune to sleeping pills,

I underwent a traumatic experience

of badly given shock treatments.

He insisted that shock treatments
would be beneficial.

I felt so inadequate, so alone.

A kind neighbour took Sylvia and me
to the hospital for the treatments.

It was she who sat with me,
holding my hand as we waited for Sylvia,

for though I wanted to accompany her,
I was not allowed to do so.

Pretty soon, the only doubt in my mind

was the precise time and method
of committing suicide.

I had to administer sleeping tablets,
which I kept locked in a metal case.

The only alternative I could
see was an eternity of hell

for the rest of my life
in a mental hospital.

Sylvia still talked to me constantly …

- in the same self-deprecating vein …
- and I was going to make use of my …

- becoming very agitated at times …
- last ounce of free choice …

- as the fall term of college approached.
- … and choose a quick clean ending.

I figured that it would be more
merciful and inexpensive to my family.

Instead of an indefinite incarceration
of a daughter in the cell of a Sanatorium,

instead of the misery of 60 years
of mental vacuum and physical squalor,

I would spare them all
by ending everything

at the height of my so-called career,

while there were still illusions
left among my profs,

still poems to be published in ‘Harper’s’,

still a memory at least
that would be worth-while.

I tried drowning, but that didn’t work.

On August 24, a blisteringly hot day,

a friend invited us to a film showing of
the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II.

Sylvia said she wanted to stay home,
but urged me to go.

So I hit upon what I figured
would be the easiest way out.

She looked particularly well this day.

Nevertheless, I left her with
a sense of uneasiness,

feeling that her happiness was contrived.
- I waited until my mother had gone,

I found it difficult to concentrate …
- My brother was at work…

- on the archaic ceremony …
- my grand-parents were out …

- I found myself filled with terror …
- I broke the lock of my mother’s safe,

- such as I had never experienced …
- took out the bottle of sleeping pills …

- Cold perspiration poured down me …
- descended to the dark ledge …

- I wanted to get out of my seat …
- after having left a note to mother …

- I forced myself to remain quiet …
- that I had gone on a long walk …

- I begged my friend to drive me home.
- … and would not be back for a day or so.

On the dining-room table …

I swallowed quantities …
- was a note in Sylvia’s handwriting …

and succumbed to the blackness …
- “Have gone for a long walk.”

That I believed was eternal oblivion.
- “Will be home tomorrow.”

The nightmare had begun.
- My mother believed my note …

The report of Sylvia’s disappearance
was issued over the radio.

- The lock to my case …
- sent out searching parties …

- had been broken up …
- notified the police …

- the sleeping pills were missing …
- On the second day or so …

she began to give up hope

when she found that the pills were missing.

At noon on the third day …
- My brother finally heard my yells …

- “Call the ambulance!”
- a nightmare of flashing lights...

- He had found his sister …
- strange voices, large needles …

returning to consciousness …
- a hatred toward the people

who would not let me die,
but insisted in dragging me back

into the hell of meaningless existence.
- She was driven to the hospital.

When I was allowed to see her,
there was an abrasion under her eye.

Her first words were “Oh, no!”

When told her how we rejoiced
she was alive

and how we loved her,

she said “It was my last act of love.”

I won’t go into the details of two weeks
in the Newton-Wellesley Hospital,

exposed to the curious eyes of all
the student nurses and passers-by,

or the two weeks in the psychiatric ward
of the Massachusetts General,

where the enormous open sore
on my cheek gradually healed,

leaving a miraculously intact eye …
- As soon as …

plus a large, ugly brown scar under it.
- … the news of our finding Sylvia

was made public, I received
a telegram from Mrs Prouty.

Suffice it to say that by
fairy-godmother-type manoeuvrings,

my benefactress at Smith got me
into the best mental hospital in the US,

where I had my own attractive private room
and my own attractive private psychiatrist.

I didn’t think improvement was possible.

It seems that it is.

One of Sylvia’s deep concerns had been

that she had not proven herself worthy
of the scholarship help given her.

I have emerged from insulin
and electric shock therapy

with the discovery that I can laugh,
if the occasion moves me

and, surprisingly enough,
it sometimes does,

and get pleasures from sunsets,

walks over the golf course,
drives through the country.

I still miss the old love and ability
to enjoy solitude and reading.

I need more than anything what is,
of course, most impossible,

someone to love me,
to be with me at night

when I wake up in fear
of the cement tunnels

leading down to the shock room,

to comfort me with an assurance
that no psychiatrist can convey.

The worst, I hope, is over.

My dear Mrs Plath,

It is good to know that your general
practitioner finds no trace of psychoses.

A neurosis can be long drawn-out
and requires even more wise handling.

Of course Sylvia doesn’t want
to see anyone now …

I can now have visitors,
go for supervised walks in the park …

It will take some time, you say,
for her face injury to heal.

Poor child, I am so sorry!
You have been through a terrific ordeal,

and I know well you are still very anxious,
and also by Sylvia’s suffering.

Freedom to walk outside alone, to
frequent the Coffee Shop and the library …

I wish I could help relieve your anxiety …
- as well as the Therapy rooms.

But I am very hopeful there will be
no scars left on either her body or soul.

Sincerely, Olive Prouty.

I long to be out in the wide open spaces
of the very messy, dangerous, real world

which I still love, in spite of everything.

As ever, Syl.

Second act

Hello again!

Where to begin!

I feel that I am walking in a dream.

Sylvia returned to Smith in the second
semester, taking only three courses.

It is simply wonderful to be back.

She was not on scholarship
at this time.

I cashed in an insurance policy
to meet her expenses.

I wanted her to feel free.

During the first few months
we telephoned frequently,

more for my piece of mind than hers.

I am so happy about
my thesis on Dostoevsky,

and also rooming with Nancy,
who is now my dearest friend.

Am still chatting with Dr Booth,
the college psychiatrist, once a week.

Mostly friendly conversations.

I really feel I am an extremely
well-adjusted person,

continually happy,
not ricocheting from depths to heights,

although I do hit heights now and then.

Love, Sivvy.

Sylvia was welcomed back
by her classmates and faculty.

Understanding and every
possible kindness were given her.

She picked up an active “date life”,
which helped build up confidence,

and she said she enjoyed herself
“in a casual, hedonistic way”.

I am so happy! Smith just voted me
a scholarship of 1250 dollars.

She made me think of deep-sea plants,

the roots firmly grasping a rock,

but the plant itself swaying in one
direction … - You’ll be happy to hear of …

then another with the varying currents
that pass over …

- Wonderful letter from …
and around her …

It was as though she absorbed
each new personality …

See you Saturday …
- she encountered …

and tried it on, later to discard it.
- Tomorrow I have …

I kept saying to myself …
- I really feel that …

“This is only a stage …”
- I love …

“it will pass”.
- I feel …

Her memory held to discords,

and seemed to have lost
recollections of shared childhood joys.

Kindnesses and loving acts were now viewed
cynically, analysed for underlying motives.

Then periodically, her sunny optimism
would reassert itself,

and we would be once more
showered with affection.

The ulcer I had developed
during my husband’s illness

had been quiescent until
the time of Sylvia’s breakdown.

At this time, I was in the
Newton-Wellesley Hospital.

Sylvia telephoned, telling the nurse

that her news would help me
more than anything else.

She had been awarded a grant
to study at Cambridge University.

I am so happy, so encouraged!

Get well fast!

All my love, Sivvy.

September 25, 1955.

Dearest Mother,

London is simply fantastic!

Oh, mother, every alleyway
is crowded with tradition,

and I can feel a peace, lack of hurry
here which has centuries behind it.

The days are generally Gray …

and landscapes are green-leaved in …
- silver mist …

like Constable’s paintings.

If you only knew how hard it is

to have so much strength
and love to give,

and still not have met anyone
I can honestly marry.

I don’t know how I can bear to go
back to the States unless I am married.

When you think of it,

it is so little of our lives
we spend with those we love.

Met a brilliant poet at a party last week.

Will probably never see him again,
but wrote my best poem about him …

The only man I’ve met here who’d be
strong enough to be equal with.

Such is life!

The man was Ted Hughes.

Oh, mother, if only you knew
how I am forging a soul!

I have fallen terribly in love,
which can only lead to great hurt.

The strongest man in the world,
ex-Cambridge, brilliant poet,

whose work I loved before I met him,

a large, healthy Adam,
half-French, half-Irish,

with a voice like the thunder of God!

A singer, story-teller,
a vagabond who will never stop.

You should see him, hear him!

He has a health and hugeness.

The more he writes poems,
the more he writes poems.

I am writing poems, and they
are better and stronger than before.

I am full of poems.
My joy whirls in tongues of words.

I have never been so exultant.

I cook trout and we eat well.

We drink sherry in the garden
and romp through words.

He tells me fairy stories and dreams,
marvellous coloured dreams …

My God …
- This is Eden here,

and the people are all shining …
- Eden …

and I must show it to you!

All my love.
Your singing girl, Sivvy.

Could you send over my ‘Joy of Cooking’?
- You must come to England!

You deserve to be with the loved ones.
I am waiting for you.

Your trip shall be for your
own soul’s health and growing.

To my complete surprise,
three days after landing at Southampton,

I was the only family attendant
at Sylvia’s and Ted’s secret wedding.

From Paris I saw them off for a
“writing honeymoon on a shoestring”.

For the first time in my life,
mother, I am at peace.

For the first time I feel free.

I feel that all my life,
all my pain and work has been for this.

I see the power and voice in him
that will shake the world alive.

Even as he sees into my poems and will work
with me to make me a famous woman poet,

even as he sees into
my character and will

tolerate no fallings
away from my best self.

Mrs Ted Hughes,

Mrs Edward James Hughes,

Mrs E.J. Hughes…

Mrs Otto Emil Plath.

In spring, news that Ted’s first
book of poetry had been accepted

was followed by the announcement that
Sylvia had been appointed to teach English

here at Smith.

Dearest Warren,

My ideal of being a good teacher,
writing a book on the side,

and being an entertaining homemaker,
cook and wife is rapidly evaporating.

This is not the life for a writer.

I am sacrificing my energy over
66 Hawthorne papers a week

in front of a rough
class of spoiled bitches!

If I knew how to teach a short story,
a novel, or a poem,

I’d at least have that joy.

But I’m making it up as I go along,
through trial and error, mostly error.

It’s easier for the men, I think …

It’s Ted who really saves me.

He is sorry I’m so enmeshed in this
and wants me to write starting this June.

How I long to write on my own again!

When I’m describing Henry James’
use of metaphor,

I’m dying to be making up my own metaphors.

I feel like throwing up my books and
writing my own bad poems and bad stories.

I don’t like talking about D.H. Lawrence.

I like reading him
selfishly for an

influence on my own
life and my own writing.

Ted and I are fermenting plans,
hoping to rent a little apartment

on the slummy side of Beacon Hill,
which we love.

Work at jobs for money, bread and
experience and write for a solid year.

Very few people can understand this!

There is something suspect,
especially in America,

about people who don’t have ten-year plans,
or at least a regular job.

We found this out trying to
establish credit at a local store.

We fitted into none of the form categories
of “The Young American Couple”.

I had a job, Ted didn’t.
We owned no car,

were buying no furniture,
had no charge accounts, no TV …

When we are both wealthy and famous,
our work will justify our lives.

God also feeds the ravens.

I hope you understand this
better than mother!

By spring 1959,

both writers had published
a number of poems

and Ted was awarded
a Guggenheim grant.

They now planned to have a child,
whom Ted wished to be English-born.

Sylvia concurred in this decision.

Dear Warren,
Ted has … Ted and I …

On the day they left,
Sylvia was wearing her hair in a long braid

with a red wool cap on her head,
and looked like a high school student.

As the train pulled out, Ted called,
“We’ll be back in two years!”

Dear Mother,

I have gone through a very
homesick and weary period,

but once we get a foothold in London,
life will become much better.

Wonderful news via telegram, for Ted.

The Somerset Maugham Award,
over 2000 dollars,

to be spent “enlarging his world-view”.
We envision the Greek Islands next winter,

and all sorts of elegant
sun-saturated schemes.

The first British publisher I sent
my new collection of poems to,

wrote back accepting them!

Amaze of amaze!

‘The Colossus and Other Poems’,
by Sylvia Plath.

For Ted.

Went to my doctor again today,
he let me listen to the baby’s heartbeat.

I was so excited! I’m going to see
if London has diaper service.

Lots of love from us both.

On the morning of April 1, 1960, at about
3 a.m., the phone at my bedside rang.

“Mother”, said a tremulous voice.
“Sylvia!” I cried.

“Is it Nicholas or Frieda Rebecca?”

“Oh, Frieda Rebecca, of course!
Ein Wunderkind, Mummy, ein Wunderkind!”

From where I sit, I can see her,
pink and healthy, sound asleep.

“A wonder child …”

Of course, of course …

Alas, she has my nose.
On her, though, it seems quite beautiful.

I have never been so happy!
- Ted was there the whole time.

You should see him rocking her
and singing to her.

She looks so tiny against his shoulder,

her fingers just closing around
one of his knuckles.

Already she shows a funny
independence and temper.

Things seem much calmer with the baby.
Ted will have a study and peace

by the time I am coping
with baby and household.

Dear Mother,

I’ve been going through
a rather tired spell,

at the depressing, painful stage
of trying to write after long silence.

Something odd happened to me today.
- I was walking the baby,

the air too cold and windy to go far,

and let my feet carry me down a road
I’d never been before.

Saw a house for sale, 41 Fitzroy Road,
the street where Yeats lived.

I was so excited that I
ran home and called Ted.

Of course I had visions of a study
for Ted in the attic, a study for me,

a room for guests, for you …

Ted is hesitating more than I.
- And I hate to compromise …

Ted’s …
- writing.

I am thinking of getting a job, if …
- Ted …

would just feed the baby.
By the way …

Ted...
- has a real desire to study zoology …

a job he could give his heart to,
not the fancy literary work

of English teaching which
would make him unhappy.

Any ideas or suggestions?

I am working very hard
on women’s magazine stories.

I also have a fine, lively agent.

So after I get acceptances here,

they’ll send any stuff good enough
to the ‘Saturday Evening Post’, etc.

I am very excited that children
seem to be an impetus to my writing.

As soon as I start selling,
I could afford a half-day babysitter.

The most wonderful thing you could do
for us would be to live here with Frieda,

while we had our first vacation in France …
- with the Merwins.

By now Ted had the use of a friend’s study
where he could work in quiet,

and Sylvia worked there on ‘The Bell Jar’,
an autobiographic novel unknown to me.

Dear Mother,

I am working hard
at the Merwin’s study,

as they are coming
home at the end of May,

and I’ve a lot I want
to finish before then.

I have found that the clue to happiness

is to have four or five hours free
and uninterrupted to write in,

the first thing in the morning.
No phone, doorbells, or baby.

I’m trying to get most of my writing
done before you come,

but even if I work in the mornings,
we’ll have the rest of the day together.

I think you’ll be a lot more
comfortable at the Merwins’.

In July 1961 I visited them,

staying with Frieda while Sylvia and Ted
went on a holiday to France.

Sylvia was again pregnant, and they were
longing to have a home of their own.

Dear Warren,

On Thursday the two of them took off for
Devon, a trip of five hours by car.

They have been sending for
real estate listings since spring,

and had selected eight places to visit.

It is the ancient house …

Yes!

of Sir and Lady Arundel.

There is a Roman mound there!

From Sivvy’s description,
the main house has …

nine rooms with a great lawn
in front, a thatched roof …

Authentic! And a “cottage” …

that is in great need of repair.
I wish I could see it,

but Ted and Sylvia are glad that
the distance makes this impossible.

They don’t mind your seeing it,
but said that I would find flaws …

I’m so happy to start fixing it up!

And now you will have a lovely
country house to visit next summer!

Thanks so much.
Lots of love, Sivvy.

Devon, England.
September 1961.

Dear Mother,

We moved on Thursday

and had a fine, hot,
sunny, blue day for it.

Ever since, a fog has shrouded us in.

Just as well, for we have been unpacking,
painting and working hard.

The place is like a person.

It responds to the slightest touch a
and looks wonderful immediately.

My whole spirit has expanded.

What a wonderful place to have babies!

Today came a Christmas parcel from you
with the ‘Ladies’ Home Journal’ magazines.

I love it!
- She loves it.

Recipes in English magazines
are for things like

“Lard and Stale Bread Pie,
Garnished with Cold Pigs Feet”,

or “Left-Over Pot Roast in Aspic”.

I feel so disappointed not to be
giving out anything but cards,

but we really need to pinch this year
to pay bills for plumbers, electricians,

extra heaters, coal, land tax,
solicitors, surveyors, movers …

Small things loom very large.

Dear Mother,

I hope you have received
the telegram Ted sent.

Our first son, Nicholas Farrar Hughes …

All during the birth,
I felt it would be a boy.

Then at five minutes to twelve,
as the doctor went away,

this great bluish, glistening boy shot out
onto the bed in a tidal wave of water

that drenched all of us to the skin,
howling lustily!

It was an amazing sight.

I immediately sat up and felt wonderful.
No tears, nothing.

Now everything is quiet inside the house.

Ted is heating the apple pie
I made to tide us over.

Oh, how I look forward to your visit!

I long to have a day alone with Ted.

We can hardly see each other over the
mountains of diapers and demands of babies.

Tell Warren to get a big house with a
soundproof bedroom before he has a baby.

I am so longing for spring!

The ecstasy after the birth of Nicholas …
- His eyes are a deep blue …

and the blooming of their gardens
after the long harsh winter …

Our daffodils and jonquils are wonderful,

I have such spring fever,

don’t want to see another dish
or cook another meal!

I am dying for you to come,
to see it all through your eyes.

I miss you so much since the last baby.

All through this, I’ve not said anything
about Warren’s engagement.

How wonderful!

What fun for you
to have all these

traditional things for
one of your children.

The diamond ring, the best photographer,
a formal wedding …

I am now awaiting Ted’s return
from a daytrip to London.

Having babies is really the
happiest experience of my life.

I would just like to go on and on!

I have the strange feeling
of having been reborn with Frieda,

as if my real, rich, happy life
only started about then.

I fell I’m just beginning at writing, too.

Well, I must get supper for my family.

Lots of love from us all.
Sivvy.

By June …

The reason I have been so slow
in writing is that I have said to myself,

“I will write tomorrow, then it is
sure to be a sunny day.”

Believe it or not, we haven’t seen
the sun for three weeks.

I have been feeling tired …

been very gloomy about the bomb news …

got awfully depressed reading
about the terrifying marriage

of big business and
the military in America.

I seem to need sleep all the time …

the day a whirlwind of baths,
laundry, meals, feedings …

Their marriage was …
- I am the busiest and happiest.

My book is about to come out.

Our daffodils and jonquils …

Lots of love to you all.

The welcome I received when I
arrived in June was heart-warming.

This is the fourth day of absolutely
blue, clean, hot weather.

I have such lovely children
and such a lovely home now.

After a few days, I sensed a
tension between Sylvia and Ted.

Honestly, the reason …
- On July 9th Sylvia said proudly,

“I have everything in life I ever wanted.

A wonderful husband,
two adorable children,

a lovely home …
- and my writing.”

Yet the marriage was …
- No!

the marriage was seriously troubled.
- No …

Ted had been seeing …
- Never!

someone else …
- Never seeing …

and Sylvia’s jealousy …
- Never speak …

was very intense.
- … to God again.

I thought it best to leave.
- Leave!

On August 4, 1962,

the four of them were waiting for
my train to pull out of the station.

The two parents were watching me stonily.
Nicholas was the only one with a smile.

It was the last time I saw Sylvia.

August 27, 1962.

I do not believe in divorce.

Dear Mother,

I hope you will not be shocked

when I say I am going to get
a legal separation from Ted.

I have too much at stake and am too
rich a person to live as a martyr.

I want a clean break, so I can
breathe, laugh and enjoy myself again.

Tell no one but Margaret and Warren
of this, perhaps not even them.

It’s a private matter
and I do not want

people who never see
me anyway to know of it.

I am in need of nothing
and desirous of nothing!

I meant you to have such a lovely stay!

September 23, 1962.

I will try to rent the house
and live in the cottage.

I want to be where nothing
reminds me of the past,

and by the sea,
which is for me a great healer.

I must at all costs get a nanny, so I can
start to write and be independent again.

September 24, 1962.

I began to see that
life is not over for me.

It is the uncertainty that
has been such a torture.

And the desire to hang on to the last
to see if anything could be salvaged.

It is a beautiful day here, clear and blue.
- I got the nanny for today and tomorrow,

and I see what heaven my life
could be if I had a live-in nanny.

I will rent the house for the winter
and go to Ireland.

I dream of Warren and Maggie!

I would love to go skiing
in the Tyrol with them.

I just read about it in the paper.

And then if I do a novel or two,

I might apply for a Guggenheim
to go to Rome with the children.

Right now I have no money,
but if I get the cottage done this winter …

I might take a London flat,
send the children to the fine schools

and enjoy the London people.

I went up to London
to the solicitor yesterday.

The laws are awful.

A wife is allowed one third
of her husband’s income,

and if he doesn’t pay up,
the suing is long and costly.

Together we earned a fine salary,
I earning one third. Now it is all gone.

I shall be penalized for earning, or,
if I don’t earn, have to beg.

I choose to invest everything in the
cottage and the nanny, and write like mad.

I must get control of my life!

It is the evenings that are the worst …
- I do have to take sleeping pills,

but they are a necessary evil now.
- I have to get a nanny in the spring.

I don’t break down
with someone else around.

Dear Mother,

I don’t know where to begin,
I just can’t take the 50 dollars!

I finally persuaded her to do so, monthly,

and opened a joint account in a London
bank, so she could use it in an emergency,

hoping she would consider
returning to the United States.

We, as a family, were prepared to
set her up in her own apartment here.

America is out for me!

If I start running now,
I will never stop.

I shall hear of Ted all my life,
of his success, his genius.

I must make a life all my own
as fast as I can!

The flesh has dropped from my bones,
but I am a fighter.

I want a flat in London.
The cultural life is what I am starved for.

I haven’t the strength to see you now.
The horror of what you saw …

what I saw you see …
- is between us,

and I cannot face you again
until I have a new life.

I was very stupid …

very happy …

no time to make any plans of my own.

I have no one.

Stuck down here as into a sack,
I fight for air and freedom.

I will need protection.

I look to Warren now that
I have no man, no adviser.

Everything is breaking!

My dinner set cracking in half.

The health inspector says
the cottage should be demolished.

Even my beloved bees set upon me today
when I knocked aside their sugar feeder,

and I am all over stings!

If I can spend the winter in Spain …
Spain is out of question!

I must get to London next fall!
I will take the children to Ireland.

Please tell Warren and Maggie
to come in spring!

In Ireland I may find my soul,
in London my brain,

and maybe in heaven what was my heart.
Love, Sivvy.

These letters were written under
great strain. They are desperate letters,

and their desperation make them
difficult to read with objectivity.

I could not, at that time.

Dear Mother,

I have had an incredible change in spirit.
I am happier than I have been for ages.

My life can begin.

Every morning,
when my sleeping pill wears off,

I am up about five,
in my study with coffee,

writing like mad,
a poem a day before breakfast.

Terrific stuff,
as if domesticity had choked me.

I need a bloody holiday.

I miss brains,

hate this cow life, and dying to
surround myself with intelligent people.

I am a famous poetess here,

mentioned this week in ‘The Listener’ as
one of the women writers who will last.

Dearest Warren and Maggie,

I have been through hell for six months,
and amazingly enough,

I retain admiration of Ted’s writing.

He is a genius, and for a genius
there are no bonds and no bounds.

It is hurtful to be ditched,
but thank God I have my own work.

I think I’ll be a pretty good novelist.
My stuff makes me laugh,

and if I can laugh now
it must be hellishly funny.

Just now, I am a bit of a wreck,
bones literally sticking out all over

and black shadows under my eyes from
sleeping pills, a smoker’s hack.

I took up smoking out of desperation
and I burned off almost all my eyebrows.

Tell me you’ll consider taking me
to Austria with you, even if you don’t,

so I’ll have that to look forward to.

I’ve had nothing
to look forward to for so long!

Dear Mother, I am still writing with
fever, alternating with chills.

I need help very much just now.
Come to the States is impossible.

I can go nowhere with the children.

I am ill, and it would be psychologically
the worst thing to see you now.

I am a writer. I am a genius of a writer.

I am writing the best poems of my life.
They will make my name.

Very bad luck with nanny agency.
A bitch of a woman is coming tomorrow.

Doesn’t want to cook, wondered if
there was a butler. Ten pounds a week!

If I had time to get a good nanny,
I could get on with my life!

I am all right, but could Margaret
spare me six weeks?

I must have someone I love to protect me.

The babes are beautiful …
though Frieda has regressed.

I cannot come home.
I am full of plans, but do need help.

I am fighting now against
hard odds, and alone.

Fighting now … and alone …

Mention has been made of my coming home for
Christmas. Do you suppose instead there is

any possibility sending me Maggie?
Could she come now instead of then?

I already love her, she would be
such fun and love the babies.

Do I sound mad?

Wanting to take Warren’s new wife?
Just for a few weeks!

Against hard odds …
- I need someone from home.

A defender.

I have a fever now,
so I am a bit delirious.

On the next months depend
my future and health.

Fighting …
- I am fine in mind …

Fighting …
- but ill in flesh.

I love you all. Sivvy.

On receiving that letter,
I cabled Mrs Winifred Davies:

“Please see Sylvia now and get
woman for her! Salary paid here!”

Winifred came last night
with some hopeful news.

A young nurse would love
to live in till mid-December.

The weather has been heavenly.

Fog mornings, but sunny days after.

I have a bad cough and shall
get my lungs and teeth seen to.

I am writing very good poems.

I need time to breathe, sun,
recover my flesh.

I love and live for letters.

Dear Warren,

I know what I need,
want, must work for.

Please convince mother of this.
She identifies too much with me,

and you must help her see
how starting my own life

in the most difficult place, here,
is the only thing to do.

Fighting …
- I wrote two worrying letters

when I was desperate.
Do convince mother I am cured.

I am a writer and that is all I want to do.

Have had my first novel accepted …
A pot-boiler and no one must read it.

Don’t tell mother!

Dear Mother,

Will you please stop
bothering Winifred Davies!

She knows my situation
much better than you can.

She came over this afternoon
and said you sent her some wire.

Please do understand that while
I am very grateful for financial help,

I want no monthly dole,
especially not from you.

You can help me best by saving
your money for your retirement.

I am doing a poem a morning, great things.

Don’t tell me the
world needs cheerful

stuff! What the person
out of Auschwitz wants

is nobody saying the birds go tweet-tweet,

but that somebody else
has been there and knows the worst.

It is much more help for me to know that
people are divorced and go through hell,

than to hear about happy marriages.

Let the ‘Ladies’ Home Journal’
blither about those.

I know just what I want and what to do.

I am well liked here,
in spite of my weirdness, I think.

I adore the babies

and am glad to have them,

even though they make life
fantastically difficult.

The worst is that Ted is at the peak
of his fame and all his friends …

But I can manage that, too.

Dear Mother,

Please forgive my grumpy, sick letters.
I see now just what I need.

Not professional nannies,
who are snotty and expensive,

but a young, cheerful girl
to whom my life would be fun.

Oh, it is ideal!

I must be one of the most
creative people in the world!

I must get back to the lively, learning
and developing person I was.

I want to study, learn history,
politics, languages, travel.

I want to be the most loving
and fascinating mother in the world.

I shall, in spite of all obstacles,
have that,

and Frieda and Nicholas
and the Literature Salon I deserve.

I shall be a rich, active woman.

I should love to use your
birthday cheque on a dress.

All my clothes are ten years old!

Just wait till I hit London!

Dearest Warren and Maggie,

The critic of the ‘Observer’ says

I’m the first woman poet he’s taken
seriously since Emily Dickinson.

Now can you get mother
to stop worrying so much?

Dear Mother,

Stop trying to get me to write
about “decent courageous people”!

Read the ‘Ladies’ Home Journal’ for those!

I believe in going facing
the worst, not hiding from it!

That is why I am going to London,

to face all the people we know and
tell them happily I am divorcing Ted,

so they won’t picture me
as a poor country wife.

I am not going to stay away
from those professional relations

just because they know or because
I may meet Ted with someone else.

Dear Mother, …
- Love, …

I am writing from London, …
- Sylvia …

so happy I can hardly speak.
- Sivvy …

I have a place!
- Cyrilly …

Where I’ve always wanted to live.
- Your maturing …

Flew to the agents.
- … crazy old …

It seems I have a chance!
- … happy …

And guess what, it is Yeats’s house, …
- … dearest …

with a plaque saying he lived there.
- … whom I love the most …

I am staying with a wonderful
Portuguese couple,

the girl is a friend of Ted’s girl,

and they see how I am,
full of interest in my own life,

and are amazed at my complete
lack of jealousy or sorrow.

I have found a fabulous hairdresser.

Cut, shampoo and set only 1,50 dollars.
I did it on your cheque.

Men stare at me in the street now,
truck drivers whistle … it’s amazing.

Living apart from Ted is wonderful.
- Love …

I am no longer in his shadow.
- … the most …

It is heaven to be liked for myself alone.
- … absolute …

I may even borrow a table from Ted’s girl.

I could be nice to her now.
- I am so happy …

She has only her high-paid job, her vanity,

and everybody wants to be a writer.
- … singing …

I may be poor in bank funds,
but I am so much richer in every other way.

I envy them nothing.
- O, he has everything!

My babies and my writing are my life.

Wish me luck.
Sivvy.

In December she closed house in Devon
and moved with the children to the city

to Yeats’s former home.

For a brief time, she responded excitedly
to the cultural stimulation of London.

Then the worst cold, snow-storms
of the century struck London for months.

Sylvia fought off flu,
the children had coughs and colds.

Someone to love me …

In spite of all this,
she continued the writing.

She began at 7 a.m. each morning
to write perfectly structured poems,

renouncing the subservient female role,
yet holding to the maternal creativity.

to be with me at night …

She had sent out ‘The Bell Jar’,
her autobiographic novel,

under a pseudonym, in the firm belief
that this would protect her anonymity.

the cement tunnels
leading to the shock room …

By the time the novel appeared,
she was ill, exhausted,

and overwhelmed by the responsibilities
she had to shoulder alone.

Dear Mother,
Well, here I am!

Safely in Yeats’s house.
I have never been so happy in my life.

I just sit thinking, shall I write a poem,
shall I paint a floor, shall I hug a baby?

Everything is such an adventure,
with everything to be painted!

“What will the green young spring be like?”

Clear, blue day …
- Young …

No gas …
- … and green …

and no electricity yet!
- … spring …

First letter was from my publishers …
Oslo, Norway … to translate and do …

‘Three Women’ and Alvarez,
best poetry critic here,

thinks my second book
should win Pulitzer Prize!

Everybody says you worry if I don’t write,
but no news is good news!

Lots and lots of love to all,
Your happy Sivvy.

I am in the best of hands.

I am slowly pulling out of the flu,
but the weakness makes me mad.

The weather has been filthy …
the roads are narrow ruts,

and the long wait for a phone,
which makes me feel cut off …

along with the lack of an “au pair”.
I did interview a nice German girl,

but her employer is making difficulties.

I have to sew the bedroom curtains …
get a stair carpet …

It is so hard to get out
to shop with the babies.

I have never been so happy in my life.

Still have the babies’ floors to paint,
the au pair’s, the hall floors

and three wood bureaux.
Blue is my new colour,

royal, midnight, not aqua.
Ted never liked blue.

Oh, Mother!
- My German au pair is food-fussy

and boy-gaga, but she gives me
some peace mornings.

My solicitor is gathering evidence
for a Divorce Petition.

Your package came today.
- There have been electric strikes,

often the heaters go out for hours.
Children freeze, dinners are stopped.

There are mad rushes for candles.
- I am going to see a psychologist

which should help me
through this difficult time.

Don’t worry about my paying bills.
I pay them immediately. Always have.

My love to all.
Sylvia.

On February 12, 1963 …

Mother!

My sister received a telegram from Ted,
telling us Sylvia killed herself yesterday.

And life is good.

“I’ll never speak to God again.”
- No.

No.
- No.

No.

November 13, 1949.

Today I have decided to keep a diary again,

just a place where I can write my thoughts
and opinions when I have a moment.

Somehow I have to keep and hold
the rapture of being seventeen.

Every day is so precious.
I feel so sad of all this time

melting farther and farther away
from me as I grow older.

Now is the perfect time of my life.

Now.

I still do not know myself.
Perhaps I never will.

But I feel free … I still can
come up to my own private room,

with my drawings on the walls,
and pictures over my bureau …

a room suited to me,
uncluttered and peaceful.

I love the lines of the furniture,

the bookcases filled with poetry books
and fairy tales saved from childhood.

Always I want to be an observer.

I want to be affected by life deeply,
but never so blinded that I can’t see

my existence in a wry, humorous light.

I am afraid of getting older.
I am afraid of getting married.

Spare me from cooking three meals a day,
spare me from the cage of routine.

I want to be free to know people … free
to move to different parts of the world.

I want to be omniscient.

I would like to call myself
“the girl who wanted to be God”.

Perhaps I am destined to be
classified and qualified.

But I cry out against it. I am I.

I love my flesh, my face, my limbs.

I have created an image of myself,
idealistic and beautiful.

Is not that image, free from blemish,

the true self, the true perfection?

I glance back on what I have written …
how foolish and dramatic it sounds.

A certain colour in the sea …

Never, never, never
will I reach the perfection.

blue …

I long for with all my soul.

There will come a time
when I must face myself.

I dread the big choices …
- love …

which loom up my life.

I am afraid. I feel uncertain.
- … the young girl …

I am not as wise as I have thought.
- … the busiest …

I can now see the roads lying open for me …
- … the happiest …

but I cannot see the end, the consequences.

Oh, I love the present …
- It is a summer day …

with all my fears and forebodings …
- … in autumn …

for now, I am not completely moulded.

I am strong.
- I feel that …

My life is still just beginning.
- I am learning.

Translated: Johanna Babits,
Charlotte Macconochie, A Nos Amours