What do you think?
I will sit on my first draft until I see Lois next week and get her reaction … work, poems, prose, letters are piled high on this damn desk of mine or else I’d take the time to type out the whole thing right now. But I’m so damn tired and not only that a daughter home for last two weeks with the flu and eight dalmation puppies who are weaned and bark at ME for food. How can I be a writer, or a poet as you call me. My name is Miss Carnation Milk seven times a barking day.
Maybe I’ll take Lois into the bar at The Ritz—if I can escape sick children and 8 puppies. I’ll try. That Lois is smart and I’ll place a bet on her. She’s nice too. That always helps. I felt the same way about Sylvia, back then. Maybe my instincts are good. As you may have guessed, Ted Hughes doesn’t turn me on one bit—but maybe my instincts are off?
How about that reading in May? Sounds like a good idea.
If Hughes writes about “the last year” I bet he makes it up anyway. Or maybe my hostility comes from Sylvia. I hardly ever met Ted … maybe she turned me off. Her letters from England always sounded happy, tho.
O well, these are just musings. I’ll tell the rest to Lois.
Good luck and stop hiding!
Anne Sexton
In March 1966, Houghton Mifflin accepted her third book, Live or Die, for an advance of $500.
[To James Dickey]
[14 Black Oak Road]
its march by god its march
[1966]
Dear Jim,
Just a note. Please don’t be angry that I haven’t written. I am out of this world busy and I’ve been sick and that just puts the botch on everything. Damn, anyway.
Your letter I received and liked—but was just going off for reading and then home soon as I got sick and I am getting to my work which pushes me hard, particularly after the sickness stuff.
Maybe we will meet in Baltimore. I know we won’t sleep with each other. I know we ought to be friends … and being friends isn’t as intellectual as You think. It can’t be for I have hardly a brain in me head and yet still I’ve got tenderness. I think tenderness can include touch—just shouldn’t mix it up with sexuality. One need not. Really! […]
Wouldn’t it be nice to be friends, tho? I mean, I think it would. But it’s easy enough to ruin, if that’s what you really need to do.… Write and I’ll try to. […] excuse the messy typing—but no help for it—I’m on a ton of tranquilizers & they make it all so impossible
Anne
[To James Dickey]
[14 Black Oak Road]
March 24, 1966
By God, it’s still March
and it’s still Weston
Dear Jim,
Well, maybe I’m all wrong and maybe I don’t know what in hell I’m doing, but my instincts keep going two ways about you. One says it’s O.K., the other says be careful. There are long complicated reasons for this, for both of this, that have nothing to do with what you have written about me, of course. It’s all very complicated. After I met you, in New York state, I heard nothing but gossip about you. Things rather nasty—not warm, not happy. As it went on, I thought “Surely they are exaggerating, surely they are telling me this to test me a bit.[”] This so-called gossip made you sound like Norman Mailer (and of course I heard all about you meeting with him) in Batman’s clothes and with a poison ring on two of your toes, and problems I didn’t need … Well, I decided to forget all about that crappy talk and remember that I liked you too—just as the person you were with me. When we met, with the exception of one rather far-out statement you made (statements something to the effect that you felt full of violence that night and felt the need to kill someone or something) I, too, liked talking of children and family life and, do you remember our talk of loss—about Randall Jarrell. We were together. We were not opposed.
So, O.K., Jim, I won’t bug you about the phone call any more. I’ll believe you. As far as I can tell I will be at Goucher College April 19th speaking in the evening, Wednesday, April 20th speaking in the morning. I’m not sure what I will do about the evening of the 20th. I may stay with some friends in Baltimore, or I might stay at a hotel in Baltimore or in Washington. However, I could meet you in the afternoon, perhaps early, or for dinner, cocktails yum yum and dinner.
I put this down plainly so that you may look at your schedule and see in which way we might get together. It would be nice to meet for a drink at least. Will you be busy at dinnertime on Wednesday, the 20th? Seeing as we are both being paid, maybe we could go out dutch treat and talk with affection about our families and our worlds and things. I would like this, and I think it would be rather free and great—as you put it. I am not sure where I am staying in Goucher College on the 19th, but the name of the head of the English Department who has contacted me is Florence Howe, Towson, Baltimore, Maryland. You might let me know where to reach you in case we miss connections.
I am certain that if we discussed most things in person that we would learn to understand each other far better than by sentences on the typewriter or voices on the phone. I know, Jim, that my concern and anxiety are excessive. I’ll give you one hint. I am more child than a woman. I am afraid of the dark. I am afraid of buildings. But not friendship, not my children, not my husband.
I have sold my book, Live or Die, to Houghton Mifflin. They are bringing it out in the fall. I finished the book because I wrote a poem called “Live.” Good enough?
Yours,
Early spring found Anne trying prose again, for the first time delving into the mysteries of the novel. Although she never managed to complete the novel, a new onslaught of poems came in June: “The Touch,” [LP] “The Kiss,” [LP] and “The Breast.” [LP] She had successfully bridged that difficult gap between the end of one book and the start of another.
[To Lois Ames]
march 23 1966 14 black oak rd weston
Dear Lois of Chicago,
I luv yr letters. Even tho I did call so as not to break the record of constant calls. Right now I’m on the damn electric typewriter so excuse all mistakes.
I should be working on my prose (don’t beshry and call a novel) I’ll henceforth call itk my N, thus confusing it with my navel. This typewriter likes to write k and g every so often so don’t mind them as they appear.
I should be writing, as I was saying, on my N. But sometimes I’ll do anything but write … with prose that is. Not so with the poem. My tendency with the N is to keep retyping as it gets so messy all scotch-taped together and written over. Maybe I’m not a real N-ist anyhow! It feels so strange to have the book of poems gone and sold this suddenly. I feel kind of raped but don’t imagine you could imagine the feeling. (Not the rape part, but the feeling of working for 4 years and thinking you’ll never get it right and then within a month or is it two—anyhow, very quickly you write LIVE and type like mad and give it to editors and they take it. And it’s all over but the clapping and not much of that … just reviews and a bunch of wasting-time crap.
So that’s why the N seems important to be doing even tho I can’t seem to pick it up again.
The “Black Art” [PO] poem could be a lie. After all, I never really tried it. Sylvia liked it but what the hell that means I don’t know, … Maybe she just kind of liked it. Anyhow she lived it. I wonder if it’s possible? The WURST would be marrying a critic. I’m sure of that. Two artists would compete unless they were in different fields. I think it would be quite nice (fantasy time) to be married to a painter only he’d always be around asking for lunch on a tray or something. I’m the one who wants that! I tell you! The best thing for a writer is to be married to someone awfully rich, who approves of their art, respects it and still thinks it’s a bit silly, ole gal (so he doesn’t take you too seriously … for writers DO tend to take themselves too seriously. I mean, of course, he ought to have a good sense of humor and also be a good father and also be nice in bed and also be cuddly when needed) … But very rich. With lots of telephones for long distance. The kind who calls up Switzerla
nd to see what the snow conditions, ski conditions, are for the coming weekend and then sticks on the phone for half an hour while some infant says how school was today.
Silly, Anne. […]
Mrs. Plath is now my friend and if I let it happen she might adopt me as a new but dangerous daughter …
Lois, lots to say, but never the time.
now, you call me (and watch out for husband)
anne
ps. have you seen the telephone bill???????
ain’t it horrible.
one must learn.
my taxes this year were 1000 bucks $$$$ I have to pay in. price of fame! eh! and no joke. the dough not really here … Once was here but since then it vanished …
love to Robert and the children and the Lois
Anne
[To Claire S. Degener]
14 Black Oak Road
March 29, 1966
Dearest Cindy,
Subject: Your Trip
I hope that your anxiety about flying has not increased and let me reassure you again that there will come a day and it will shoot down like a bullet. I am a living example. And I’m here to tell it. Meanwhile, I give you my sympathy, my handholding, my heartknown knowledge that you will survive your terror, and come out grand, simply grand. Anything that I can do, in the way of reassurance or factually, from my own experience, for Chrissake let me know. You are not alone … but then remember, if I can survive it, and I’m well known to be the crazy one, then you can. Let’s see, I should speak to you of God, seeing as you seem to have Him on your mind. Cindy, have you really read my books? There are all sorts of priests and nuns who think that I am religious. I have told no one of this fact in my town, including all ministers and priests, but I am pretty God Damn religious if you want to look at it. Once I thought God didn’t want me up there in the sky. Now I am convinced he does. And you, too, and why not? There’s lots of room up there.
Subject: My play. Tell Me Your Answer True
I had occasion to meet a Mr. Brice Howard of National Educational Television, 10 Columbus Circle, New York. Because he was doing a program for N.E.T. about me. Howard is the bossman, and came along with the producer, Richard Moore, to help him handle me because I made very difficult noises on the telephone. I told them they could never get the real Anne Sexton with their camera eye and their sound box, and that I was impossible and all that. So Moore brought his boss along, Brice Howard, to see if they could manage me. They did a fine job if it; and as we talked, I showed Brice Howard a copy of Tell Me Your Answer True. Moore and I were talking TV details. Next thing I knew this Brice Howard was talking to me of the possibilities of filming my play. […] He had read the first act, and he talked real groovy about ways to film it. He kind of turned me on, but then maybe he was pushing the TV and didn’t give a damn for the play. […] I feel, although I might be wrong, that he was taken with me a bit—or rather, taken with the play. His ideas for filming were interesting and original, although he looks like a square.
Maybe nothing came of it. Once flying, I tend to fly too high.
The TV program they did was extensive. They will squash it down into a half hour or fifteen minutes, making me into an accordion. I almost fell in love with the producer, but that’s par for the course. […]
Subject: A Novel.
Cindy, I cannot possibly send you the first chapter of this damn thing because I am not sure if it is real. I have written three chapters, but they are not well-written. Still, if I have the time, and I am indeed dictating this to a Girl-Monday, I might send you a chapter or two just to let you know what I’m doing—but I don’t want you to think of it as something set but as something that is started.
Subject: New Book of Poems. Live or Die
Maybe I will be able to send you a copy. I’ll try to. I see that Houghton Mifflin has sent you the contract, and I assume that I will get it in the mail before you get this letter. I think I do know the poetry business, and as I swore on the typewriter and my Gideon bible and my Holy Bible Revised Standard Version, you know about the other junk. Cindy, you have a problem here. Poetry to me is prayer—the rest of it is leftovers.
Love to you,
[To Claire S. Degener]
14 Black Oak Road
April 14, 1966
Dear Cindy:
I am so glad that I talked with you before talking with Miss Rhoades at McCall’s Magazine. My Girl-Monday has just completed retyping the unsold (first serial rights) poems from Live Or Die. […]
Also, if you will stop being paranoid about it I am impressed with your presence and your knowledge of the Big City. If you can sell these poems, I will be even more impressed. […] I have a feeling the poems are splendid, but then, one has to have some sort of feeling like that about their own work no matter who prints it or likes it.
I think you should be more impressed with my knowledge of the poetry racket (although I have not got the NBA or the Pulitzer, I am in almost every anthology with the exception of one and have gotten a hell of a lot of money for writing the truth.) I’d like those prizes of course—but it is mostly pull or luck & certainly printing in McCall’s won’t bring them.) The money I got was never, or hardly ever, for the printing of the poems but in various grants, etc. Still, I am getting anthologied and if I can write good it will keep on going on, and we’ll all get little dribs and drabs of money for ourselves and our children and their children. Do I sound like the Bible yet?
I am in love with money, so don’t be mistaken; but first I want to write good poems. After that I am anxious as hell to make money and fame and bring the stars all down. But if you respect me, you will understand that I know what I am saying when I tell you that McCall’s does not bring the NBA or the Pulitzer. Maybe sales, maybe publicity. It’s the only racket I know. Leave me some autonomy in it or in knowing my way around it. I learned the hard way, and I didn’t crawl up anyone’s back—much; or if I crawled, it took a hell of a lot of sweat and guts. As they say in the movies, I got here the hard way, with no education and no dough, and whatever I am I am because I wrote it.
So! Beautiful one, sell. Don’t be put down by Palm Beach or even my synthetic words. I pray for the play. I don’t worry about the poems—you’ll do what you’ll do. I have finished trying to sell them anywhere because they’re mostly a secret. Time now to give up secrets and publish. If you can get McCall’s to publish some of these poems I’ll either eat this letter or my secretary. (Secretary says she’s not worried.) However, I’ll give you your positive thinking and let you get to work on it. After all, they’re God damned important poems. Whether they like them or not, they ought to print them.
Luv,
P.S.You missed out on the novel again because it took my Girl-Thursday here three hours to type out these poems as per your request. I obey. I obey. I am a good girl.
In April, Anne gave a reading at Sweet Briar College in Virginia, with Linda accompanying her. There they met Philip Legler, a young professor and poet who immediately became infatuated with Anne’s glamour. He wrote her an ardent love letter as soon as she returned home, beginning an intense correspondence which lasted for several years.
[To Philip Legler]
14 Black Oak Road
April 28, 1966
Dear Phil Baby—
I am so glad you sent more poems. I want to tell you right off that “The Sweat Box” is a very good poem and you might do well to send it to The New Yorker. I think the last two lines could be stronger or, at least, they are obscure to me and I also wish they were on rhymes—something I call slamming the door shut at the end of a poem. Here, you have a cushion with the off rhyme. At any rate, that’s what I think, and I think it about a damn good poem. Phil Baby, how come you’re still so smart and well to write poems in the nuthouse? And to go and rent a typewriter?? For Chrissakes, don’t be so terribly depressed. Tell that pregnant woman she doesn’t know anything about life yet. Tell your doctor he had no right to be out of town when you were in trouble. Tell your d
octor that no wonder you’re nuts when he goes out of town and leaves you with a bunch of nuts. Tell him that it’s catching and that it’s all his fault.
Phil, when I went in the nut house I was not “out of it” although I wrote that way. Sure. I was crazy as hell, but I knew it. And knowing it is a kind of sanity that makes the sickness worse. I would watch it happen and I heard the same voice crying from the locked wing. I heard it too loud. It was awful. They left me there and maybe I never recovered from the sound of that loud voice and maybe that’s a good thing … Let it scream. Life screams in the head of every artist with his typewriter or his pen, so let it. Check it all out. Write it all down. When you get sane (if you can call what I am sane??) you can fix what you write and prove what you write. Anything you write now will be gold later so mine it and don’t make the God-damned baskets. And send me every poem you write and every word you wish to write and I will read it all and read it well and know that you send it to me and forgive you and adore you and understand you. I know you’re depressed as hell and I don’t blame you. About your book and your second book and all of it. Of course your poems care. You care and it’s all over the place. Not every poet gets instant fame and one can’t expect it even though one needs and desires it. God damn it, keep writing.
If I shook you up then know that you shook me up because you are very intense and very beautiful and so are your words and believe me I don’t have the time any more to write letters and if I don’t write you every day it doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about you every day. I can cope with you. The problem is more how do I cope without you because such as you happens almost never. For Chrissakes keep writing to me even if I can’t answer all the time. I need your letters like food. Don’t show this letter to your wife. It’s the kind of love letter I shouldn’t write. But why not? We’re both mad mad mad and I did see everything that went on and so do you. And it’s awful but remember you’re smarter and in a way that makes [sentence left unfinished]
Keep that typewriter going.Love from Annie Baby