DECEMBER 7, 1950
Dear Mum,
Your letter and one from Olive Higgins Prouty came in the same mail … I was thrilled to see Mrs. Prouty’s scratchy, almost illegible hand. Her letter is one I will always keep. She thinks I have “a gift for creative writing” and wants me to send her some of my poems and drop in to have a cup of tea when I come home on vacation. [Their meeting inspired an (unpublished) manuscript written for—and rejected by—Reader’s Digest, “Tea with Olive Higgins Prouty.”] She even said she’s having my letter typed up with carbons to send to some of her alumnae friends. It makes me feel so wonderful that I could even partly express to her how I felt about Smith, and as Miss Mensel said, it’s nice to have a scholarship mean more than a grant of money.
Love, Sivvy
DECEMBER 10, 1950
Dear Mother,
… I have been rather worried about a friend of mine…. Her usual gaiety has been getting brighter and more artificial as the days go by. So yesterday, after lunch, I made her come up to my room. At first she was very light and evasive, but at last her face gave way and melted. It seems that since Thanksgiving she hasn’t been able to do her work, and now, having let it slide, she can only reiterate, “I can never do it, never.” She hasn’t been getting enough sleep, but has been waking up early in the morning, obsessed by the feeling she has to do her work, even if she is in such a state that she can only go through the motions…. She finally told me that she had realized she was not intelligent enough for Smith—that if she could do the work, nothing would matter, but her parents were either deceiving her into thinking she was creative or really didn’t know how incapable she was. The girl was in such a state of numbness that she didn’t feel any emotion, I guess, except this panic. I got scared when she told me how she had been saving sleeping pills and razor blades and could think of nothing better than to commit suicide.* Oh, mother, you don’t know how inadequate I felt. I talked to her all afternoon … If only I could make her sleep and personally supervise her for a few days! I can’t say anything to Mrs. Shakespeare or anyone here, because [she] would only put up a mental barrier, thinking they wouldn’t understand. But I have been thinking of writing a note to her parents (she admitted that it would be more convenient if she took the car and killed herself at home …) telling them a bit of how tired she is and how she needs rest before she can do her work. For her mother kept telling her she was foolish and could do it all. But her mother couldn’t really see how incapable the poor girl is of thinking in this state.
Oh, well, maybe it’s none of my business, but I love the girl and feel very inadequate and responsible. If you were her mother, she would be all right.
Love, Sivvy
[Undated; postmarked January 13, 1951]
Dear Mother,
… You no doubt wondered what that Special Delivery letter from our favorite magazine was about. I can picture you feeling how thick it was and holding it up to the light. Well don’t get too excited, ‘cause it’s only a third prize, but it does mean $100 (one hundred) in cold, cold cash. Seriously, I’m kind of dazed. I did love “Den of Lions” and Emile’s name sure worked as a lucky piece. It seems my love affairs always get into print, only I doubt if anyone will recognize this one. This time I’ve got to get a good photograph—or snapshot. I’ll bring home the documents to be signed when I come home in a week and a half. Could you have that old roll of film developed? It would save expense if I had a good snapshot of myself on it.
Honestly, Mother, can’t you see it now? An illustration for it and everything? I’ll show you the letter from the editor (very conventional and Seventeenish and “hope you have a long, successful career,” etc.) when I see you. I’m dying to see what got 1st and 2nd prize. Oh, well, you can’t always hit the top! But Clem’s mother better watch out. I’ll be Sarah-Elizabeth-Rodgering her out of business in no time. [Sarah-Elizabeth Rodger: the novelist and highly successful writer of magazine fiction. Her son, Clement, was a classmate of Warren’s at Exeter and Harvard.]
FEBRUARY 21, 1951
Although you brushed with almost hysterical gaiety over your ulcer—I am only too aware that Fran’s [my doctor’s] “demotion” was caused by trouble. I don’t want you to worry about things, Mummy. Is it money? or Warren? As for money, I have good news. Marcia [Brown] and I got a double-decker on the second floor, and that will be $50 less for the year. (I slept in one when I visited her, and managed quite well.)
[Undated; written early February 1951]
Dear Mother,
… As for my weekend, I thought I’d wait to tell you after it happened … I left Saturday morning to go to Yale with Dick Norton [a family friend and Yale student who became an important boyfriend], who wrote and asked me to drop down for a day or two, for God knows what reason. I think he thought it would be a nice thing to do—show little “cousin” round the campus. But I did have a good time and learned a great deal.
It rained all day Saturday, so we sat and talked in his room. He knows everything. I am so firmly convinced that knowledge comes through science that I would like to get some elementary books of physics or chemistry or math and study them this spring vacation and this summer. Perhaps Warren could help me. For I am the strange sort of person who believes in the impersonal laws of science as a God of sorts and yet does not know what any of those laws are … All that I write or paint is, to me, valueless if not evolved from a concrete basis of reasoning, however uncomplex it must be … Poetry and art may be the manifestations I’m best suited for, but there’s no reason why I can’t learn a few physical laws to hold me down to something nearer truth.
I came away last night feeling desperately eager to learn more and more. It’s so easy to be satisfied with yourself if you aren’t exposed to people farther advanced … I kept asking Dick to tell me about his interview results in sociology, and about what he met up with at the mental institution and all. It was a process of assimilation and taking on my part and, of necessity, nothing reciprocal. But he has an amazing mind and a remarkable group of highly developed skills—dancing, skating, swimming and so on. So I felt a bit guilty to take up two days. You’ll have to admit it was a rather unselfish gesture on his part …
Love, Sivvy
{Postcard}
FEBRUARY 25, 1951
Just thought I’d tell you something that surprised me a bit. A senior said to me at lunch, “Congrats for being up on the College Hall Bulletin Board again.” (Smith girls in the news, you know!) So, full of curiosity, I hurried over. You should have seen it. I stood for a full five minutes laughing. It was one of those cartoon and personality write-ups titled “Teen Triumphs.” There was a sketch of a girl s’posed to be me—writing, also a cow. It said, and I quote: “BORN TO WRITE! Sylvia Plath, 17, really works at writing. To get atmosphere for a story about a farm she took a job as a farmhand. Now she’s working on a sea story.” Then there’s another sketch of me saying, “and I’ll get a job on a boat.” Not only that. “A national magazine has published two of her brain children, the real test of being a writer. The little Wellesley, Mass, blonde has won a full scholarship* to Smith College.” All this effusive stuff appeared in the Peoria, Illinois, Star on January 23. Beats me where they got the sea stuff. I just laughed and laughed.
{Postcard}
MARCH 1, 1951
Dear Mother,
I think I shall start a new scrapbook about myself, what with all my little attempts at writing being blown up rather out of proportion. Imagine, one awestruck girl greeted me yesterday with, “I hear you’re writing a novel. I think that’s just wonderful!” Whereupon I felt like telling her I was my twin sister and never wrote a damn thing in my life. I’ve got to get to work if I’m to live up to my “reputation.” At least Olive Higgins Prouty can feel I really do write. Seems that scholarship was rather well chosen. Hope the dear is content.
Love, Sivvy
APRIL 18, 1951
Dear Mother,
When I consider that there are
but 45 days left to my freshman year in college, I feel frightened. At the same time that I wish the tension and exams were over, so do I realize that I am thus wishing my life away. And as I look ahead I see only an accelerated work-pattern until the day I drop into the grave. One encouraging thing—we had a talk on taking honors this morning in chapel, and the twelve hour week appeals to me no end. I will definitely honor! This twenty-four hour schedule runs me, and I am sick of having to do work in isolated pieces with no time to follow thru various absorbing facets of it.
I am extremely lost as to which courses to take next year. I must take a practical art and a creative writing course, but I am still undecided as to my major. I should also take both an English lit and a history of art course in case I choose one or the other. Also I should take science and govt or sociology, which leaves me in conflict. Sometimes I wonder whether or not I should go into social work. If I did that, I could earn my own living—or if you could get me started secretarially next summer, I might lay in summer experience for that “U.N. job.” The question is—shall I plan for a career? (ugh—I hate the word) or should I major in English and art and have a free lance career? If I ever catch a man who can put up with the idea of having a wife who likes to be alone and working artistically now and then. I would like to start thinking about where I’ll put the emphasis for the rest of my brief life.
If I get battered and discouraged in my creative course next year, I don’t care. Olive Higgins Prouty said I “had something.” Mr. Manzi, my art teacher, spent an hour telling me how he liked what I was turning out in art (before supper, too, and he’s a gourmet, at that).
As for jobs … Marcia and I are seeing about one for two friends, baby sitting in Swampscott. Wish us luck!
Love, Sivvy
MAY 6, 1951
Dear Mum,
… I was quite amused to receive your comments on the story along with Eddie’s [Cohen] and Dick’s [Norton]. Dick, I think, was perhaps a bit impressed and actually said he liked it. He is such a dear. I got a charming long letter from him all about it, saying how he showed the thing to various and sundry of his friends.
Eddie was also surprisingly sweet and laudatory, and his criticisms were all extremely valid. It’s funny, but he said some things that I had never thought of—about how he thought it should have gotten 1st, but 17 probably put it on a lower level because of the fuzzy characterization of Emile and the not-strong-enough explanation of Marcia’s decision. He also thought the metaphors were “lovely writing” but too overdone—inhibiting straight action and dialogue. I can’t say it as well as he did, but I can see his points completely.
As for me, I think practice will help me grasp even larger situations. This new experience with children [summer baby-sitting job] might prove writable, too.
Love, Sivvy
MAY 9, 1951 (1 P.M.)
Dear Mother,
Sometimes I think the gods have it in for me. Things have been much too smooth and placid so far. Anyhow, I’m over my cold, pretty well caught up in everything except Art, when—bang!
I got my program pretty well settled for next year with my advisor (who is also my Botany teacher), when, as I was striding cheerfully and skippingly out of his office, I slipped on the smooth stone floor and fell on my ankle, which gave a nasty and protesting crunch. The train of events involved my throwing my arms about dear Mr. Wright’s neck and getting him to half-carry me downstairs to his car. The doctor taped it, and I had it x-rayed this morning for a possible break.
Needless to say, what with a huge English paper due tomorrow and this divine weekend tottering in the balance, I feel all too close to tears. But self-pity isn’t appreciated by people who have the use of their two feet, so I swallow my salty sobs and grin bravely.
If it’s a break, I’ll have to have a cast. That would definitely finish the idea of my going anywhere. If it’s only a bad sprain, I’ll call Dick and ask him if I can limp down. If he doesn’t want me down, I’ll ask him up, and if he doesn’t want me either way, he’s a bad doctor and a poor sport.
Seriously, I will ask for Mondays off [from summer baby-sitting job]—because there is nothing I’d rather do than see Dick. I really do think he’s the most stimulating boy I’ve ever known, and I don’t care much about anybody else anyway. I suppose I might be conservative and say that I adore him and worship his intellect and keen perceptions in almost every field. But I still think that if he ever saw me with noseguards on, flailing impotently in the water, or with skates on, standing on my ankles, that his enthusiasm in my direction might cool rapidly….
However, I have a rather odd feeling that the more I see Dick the more I like him and the more I like him the more I want to show him things and get his reactions on things. Of course, I could always play safe and withdraw myself into a protective little shell so I won’t feel too sad when he wearies of my company and browses in greener fields. Ah, me!
… Pray it’s not a break, dear Mummy! [It wasn’t.] And if so, I will keep my chin up. If you ever want to call me, try between six and seven, as I am usually here for supper. Love you very much.
Sivvy
MAY 16, 1951
Dear Mother,
… If only you could be here today! I never have seen such lovely weather in my life! … As I write at my desk in front of the open window I can hear the subdued murmur of twilight birds, see leady silhouettes of treetops, and one evening star …
As you probably know, I’m going to the Yale Commencement and Dick will probably drive me home on the second of June after my last French exam … By the way, Dick has the queer idea that daughters grow to be like their mothers. You better not be so capable and wonderful, because the poor boy doesn’t know that I’m rather an awkward hybrid. I pointed out the discrepancy in our noses as an indication that like does not always breed like. He also thinks I have negroid features … say, we get compliments we ain’t even used yet.
I am definitely majoring in English. My schedule, tentative as it is, looks pretty good so far.
SWAMPSCOTT, MASS.
JUNE 20, 1951
C’est la vie!
Dear Mother,
Say, but I feel that I’m cut off from all humankind. I don’t even know how I can last one week. I feel like putting my head on your shoulder and weeping from sheer homesickness. They say not to let children be tyrants over you. Fine, but I’d like to know just how you get a thing done on your own if you are continually to “keep an eye” on them while they play when they want you to put them up on swings or play ball, or if I should maybe run after them all the time just so they’ll think I’m on the job.
Last night I couldn’t sleep and couldn’t sleep just because I wanted so badly to spill over to someone. My day begins at 6 or 6:30 with the first cry or bright face bursting in the door. Mr. and Mrs. M. sleep downstairs with the baby who is just a toddler and who “loves to get into everything.” The 4-year-old girl is a “me-do,” always doing death-defying leaps after big brother on the trapeze. After I get the two older ones washed and dressed, I go down and help with breakfast, after which I do dishes, make beds, pick up and mop the kids’ rooms, do laundry in the Bendix and hang it out, watch the children. There is no cook here, so a woman comes three days a week. I just hope she makes lunch for the kids and me on those days. She is very capable and I don’t know just whether I’ll be in her way or not when I clumsily monkey about in the kitchen. But I’d love it if you could tell me how to cook some meats and vegetables … ‘cause I cook our lunches when Helen (the lady) isn’t here. (Hah!) After lunch the two youngest are supposed to have naps, while the boy plays around by himself. I hope to be able to rest in my room for an hour then, although I will do the ironing whenever there’s time—just for the kids who change clothes every day so every day there’s wash and ironing to do. I get the supper for myself and the children and hope I feel more like eating as the days go by. After supper, I wash the baby and put her to bed. The two oldest play out till after seven, whereup
on I call them in, bathe them and put them to bed. If I have my way, they’ll all be out of the way by eight, by which time I shall probably be so dead that I can no more look at a book than anything …
Do I ignore their fights? Do I try to break them up? How do you inspire kids with awe and respect? By being decisive? By being ominously quiet?
Outside it is lovely. From my window I can see the beach. So I sit here exhausted, seeing no way out, seeing only slavery from six in the morning till eight at night …
One sure thing, I don’t feel like traveling to Brewster [Cape Cod, to see Dick]. My face is a mess, all broken out; my tan is faded, my eyes are sunken. If I could be pretty, I wouldn’t mind so much. But I shall do my best and try to keep the letters heading that way cheerful …
Do write me now and then, but don’t expect to hear from me too often …
Your bewildered … Sivvy
JULY 7, 1951
Dear Mummy,
… I feel very sorry I don’t write more often, Mumsy, because your letters are great sustenance to me. I miss you and home and Warren, and wouldn’t mind so much if I felt I was learning anything, or writing or drawing something worthwhile … When there is no one around to make you feel wanted and appreciated, it’s sort of easy to talk yourself into feeling worthless. I haven’t really thought about anything since I’ve been here. My reactions have been primarily blind and emotional—fear, insecurity, uncertainty, and anger at myself for making myself so stupid and miserable.
… Seventeen sent two brief mimeographed copies of eulogistic letters about my story. I laugh a bit sadistically and take them out to read whenever I think I’m a worthless, ungifted lummox—some gal by the name of Sylvia Plath sure has something—but who is she anyhow?