| Title | : | Letters Home |
| Author | : | |
| Rating | : | |
| ISBN | : | 0571201156 |
| ISBN-10 | : | 9780571201150 |
| Language | : | English |
| Format Type | : | Paperback |
| Number of Pages | : | 502 |
| Publication | : | First published January 1, 1975 |
Letters Home Reviews
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When I started this I was not at all sure whether I wanted to read it. I liked The Bell Jar, but it could just have been the time I read it. I do not get her poetry. Cult of the personality stuff makes me uncomfortable. Doesn't she deserve to be laid to rest, anyway. Blah.
BUT! I read the first couple of letters and was sucked in. It seems like she used her letters in a similar way that I use my diary, so I felt as if I was right in her life. And although the events of her life in September 1950 might not be particularly interesting to anyone who is not particularly interested in Sylvia Plath, it was very interesting to me (even though I tell myself I am not particularly interested in Sylvia Plath). But in September 1950 she moved away from her family to go off to college. Now, I have just moved away from my family to go off to college! (Though I call it 'university'.) And there are other superficial similarities too. And so I was in the rather odd position of finding myself reading what was in places almost an exact transcript of my life. I am in the habit of dog-earing pages which contain something I find profound or striking, but in the early stages of this book I found myself dog-earing so many pages that I had to start underlining instead because there weren't enough corners to fold. Which is all very well, except that there are few people in the world I would less like to resemble.
It's difficult not to read her poetry and such autobiographically - I feel so desperately sorry for her because of how everything she did seems to be coloured by her marriage to Ted Hughes and her suicide and a sort of hysterical, whining feminism (and there is a little voice in my head that says that none of this would ever have happened if she was a man). Similarly, it's hard not to read her letters autobiographically, hard not to be continually searching for some evidence of a hormonal imbalance in the brain. And you find it, too, in what seems like the almost desperate happiness that comes through when she writes (though probably it is sincere and the desperation is the product of your imagination). And when she mentions her "old resilient optimism" and says she should "never commit suicide, because something unexpected always happens", you tut and shake your head in disbelief. Because doesn't this imply that she has already considered suicide? And is that not the saddest thing?
I think, though, after a few pages I forgot it was Sylvia Plath and started reading as if it was just a girl. A young woman, a bit like me. I was completely absorbed in her life, so when her first suicide attempt turned up (the one The Bell Jar is based on, presumably), I was severely shaken. It was a shock. To my relief, though, as the speed with which her letters covered her life outstripped my own life, she began to resemble me less and less. Which was good. The only reason I saw myself in her letters is because she writes about things that are fairly universal, or at least relatively common, things for people to feel: the excitement of moving away from home, the optimism about starting afresh in a place you really want to love, the fondness you feel for anyone and everyone who crosses your path, the stages of partial disillusionment, homesickness, fatigue that come later. Unfortunately, since I'm not overly fascinated by her biography, reading about her life is no longer all that interesting (maybe I'm just self-obsessed). So I'm putting this aside for now.
Nonetheless, she does write beautifully, and although some of the things she wrote could have been lifted directly from my diaries without even needing to change any of the specifics, more often than not I found myself reading a rather perfect evocation of something I had never thought to write down, or had not been able to express properly when I tried. Something I thought was mine alone.
"I felt that I was drowning in a sea of personalities, each one as eager to be a whole individual as I was."
And this, is it not, is one of the greatest reasons why we read. The best writing can break down the walls that separate us from each other - it can overcome the limitations of perception so we can understand what other people feel. "It is as if a hand has reached out, and taken yours." It is a whisper in the darkness as you lie awake at night, unable to sleep: You are not alone.
A measure of loneliness is the price we pay for self-awareness. Even the company of a suicidal manic-depressive whose poetry I don't get is better than nothing. -
The disparity between her bleak poetry and these almost desperately cheerful letters to her mother is heartbreaking.
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Mothers/daughter relationships--unless you're part of the duo, you'll never, ever get it. My boyfriend does, my brother doesn't--my father gets us both, but even he doesn't get us "together." As far as I can tell, how do you co-exist with someone you love, admire, hate, hope the best for/worst for? How do you take someone seriously you've known since they were in diapers? And likewise, how do you take someone seriously that you've spent your whole life working to "out do"? Mothers and daughters are set up to fail.
But the love that's undenably there is very special. I've spent years reading about Sylvia Plath. That's what girls from 15 to 30 are supposed to do, right? I've always loved her books, poems and most of all, diaries, which is what her letters to her mother most closely resemble. While Plath's letters to Ted Hughes, her husband, show her as strong, romantic and stubborn, the Sivvy who writes letters to her mother is another person entirely. To Aurelia Plath, Sylvia Plath does what she rarely was able to: tell the truth--the real truth, not just some confessional, grotesque, mouth-gaping version of it, but the actual truth according to Sylvia.
In these letters to her mother, Sylvia Plath dares to admit her uncertainties, to reflect her personal fears, failures and questions on her mental status.
Why? Because you can't hide from your mother, even if you want to (and our mothers are usually who we WISH we could hide from most). So, in this rare look at Plath, when Sylvia allows herself to be more even and human than I've ever seen her, we see Siivy in her most even tones, which is crutial, if you ever want to see her as realistic.
I loved it--especially Aurelia's notes at the bottoms of each page, indicating Syliva could not hide. Not from her mother. Not ever. -
Sylvia Plath's Letters Home has made her character both clearer and more ambiguous to me.
These letters sometimes serve as creative and emotional outlets; sometimes they are to sooth her homesickness or loneliness; other times, they are assurances to others that she is okay. Mostly, I believe, her letters are desperate; gasps for air. Her hopelessness rings loudly (and ironically) through her optimism. The water becomes more and more tumultuous but she continues to rise above to scream, "I'm fine!!!" , "I'm happy!!!" , "Oh, how wonderful my life is!!! How lucky I am!" with the little oxygen she has to spare.
She reassures herself of hope, she outlines the future because there is one!, and she ensures that everyone knows how excited the world makes her, how inspiring life is, and how much time she pours into her writing, as well as how joyful poetry makes her.
This optimism, this energy, this enthusiasm is almost confusing. After reading Plath's letters, I can't say that I understand her better. I am more doubtful of what I understand about who she was - her sentiments towards her mother, her father, her children, and husband... At the same time, this doubt makes me feel closer to understanding.
Plath is not the melancholic, nihilistic, morbid, beautifully tragic female poet she has such a reputation of being, even as claimed by people who claim to be fans of her. Despite her depression, Plath seemed to have tried so hard to "look on the bright side!" and be grateful for what she did have. She tried, like we all do, to trick herself into being happy. In fact, reading these letters, I realize what a normal girl she was, despite her flickering wisdom and distinctive ambition.
The persistence and resilience that is so evident in these letters as opposed to The Bell Jar and her poetry, is what makes it difficult to imagine Sylvia Plath succumbing to darkness and submitting herself to, for lack of a less judgmental word, weakness. Yes, it is difficult to imagine her weak. It is even more difficult to imagine the woman who wrote these letters also writing stanzas like: "Dying is an art [...] I do it exceptionally well."
Regardless, these letters demonstrate the sizzling passion and ambition in Sylvia Plath as screaming, and, yes, I do believe that Sylvia Plath really did mostly adore life and the world. There was a fear in her, of making the wrong move; a move that would stain potential forever. Despite the fate she took, her enthusiasm is a lot more notable to her character and entire being, than her depression.
I encourage anyone who likes Sylvia Plath and wants to learn and understand more about her, to read Letters Home, for it is probably the most authentic source for the truths and lies that wore for the outside world. I have yet to read her journals.
"Sometimes I try to put myself in another’s place, and I am frightened when I find I am almost succeeding. How awful to be anyone but I. I have a terrible egotism. I love my flesh, my face, my limbs with overwhelming devotion. I know that I am 'too tall' and have a fat nose, and yet I pose and prink before the mirror, seeing more and more how lovely I am… I have erected in my mind an image of myself — idealistic and beautiful. Is not that image, free from blemish, the true self — the true perfection? Am I wrong when this image insinuates itself between me and the merciless mirror." -
Having read these letters in such a short period of a time, I feel somewhat bereft without them. Much like Sylvia's mother must have, I've come to rely on reading a letter from Sylvia almost everyday. This is truly an amazing collection. Nearly all of the letters are written to her mother, Aurelia, who edited the volume and provides introductions to each section. I readily identified with Sylvia, especially in her early years at Smith when she attempted to excel in her classes while maintaining an active social life. Her letters are full of typical college girl complaints - boys, books, professors, etc. Of course there were many aspects which were not as typical. I was excited and fascinated by her accounts of interviews with Marianne Moore, lectures with W.H. Auden, and later, dining with T.S. Eliot and his wife. Sylvia's ambition, determination, and (more than anything) her love of life shines in these letters. When in Cambridge on a Fulbright scholarship she met Ted Hughes. These early letters describing their passionate meeting and subsequent romance/marriage are beautiful, exciting, and, because one cannot help but remember how it all ends, heartbreaking. Sylvia's attention to detail, lively descriptions of her friends, and frequent requests to "send cookies" are endearing and charming. The later section of the collection is truly heart-wrenching. After moving from London to the country with Ted, Sylvia gave birth to their second child. The joyousness in the letters following Nick's birth gives way to quiet desperation and sadness after realizing her husband was having an affair. After Ted had moved out and Sylvia became intent on owning an apartment in London (specifically W.B. Yeat's old flat), her writing becomes somewhat frenzied. She tells her mother she is writing from four AM till 8 AM "when the babies wake up." During this time, she also published her novel, "The Bell Jar," but because she knew it contained some biographical information which might have hurt her mother, she insisted that Aurelia not read it, that it was only a "pot-boiler" and that she would be coming out with a second, better novel soon. She attempts to assure her mother that she is fine, adamently refusing to 'let Ted win' and return to the States where she would be taken care of and comforted. The poems she wrote during this time would make her famous, but the intensity and furiosity with which she wrote would eventually take its toll. During one of the harshest winters in England's history, Sylvia and the children all came down with fevers. In her feverish state Sylvia continued to insist that she was alright and that she was looking forward to her brother's visit in the spring. Despite her outward determination to carry on and love for her children, the pressure evidently became too much to bear and Sylvia killed herself on February 11, 1963. A truly haunting collection of letters, I feel I have gained some profound insight into a poet I greatly admire.
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Sylvia Plath's Letters Home juxtaposed against her Unabridged Journals is a fascinating study. The face she showed to Mummy in her letters versus what was truly happening in her life and mind is heartbreaking and reminds me of the importance in my own heavy depression struggle of being as true as I can to all the people in my life, so that they might see me and pull me into light when I start to fail. Her letters are almost manic in their tales of the mad joy she supposedly found while away at college, and then with Ted Hughes in her marriage. They show her strength, perserverence, self-doubt, joy, and ultimately that one moment in time when it all felt too hard to carry on.
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I have a complicated view on posthumously published letters, but the desperate, almost forced cheerfulness in these letters to her mother contrasted with the bleak despair in her poetry (and diaries) makes me feel nauseated.
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"Wzdrygam się na myśl, ilu mężczyzn byłoby gotowych zadowolić się małą cząstką mnie, biorąc ją za całość."
"Chciałabym mieć dość siły na to, by nie zasklepić się w bezpiecznym cieple utrwalonych sytuacji, tylko wciąż i wciąż na nowo penetrować świat ruchu i cierpienia, którego prawdziwymi książkami są ludzkie dusze." -
Un nuovo specchio della Plath dal consolidamento della carriera artistica alle problematiche di distruzione, attraverso le carte donate alla madre nel corso degli anni.
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Es un excelente libro para conocer mejor a Sylvia.
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I finished about three quarters of these letters. While many people on here felt these letters were more personal and enjoyable than her diary entries, I have to disagree. I actually got a tad bored with them. What I did find interesting was to read them along with the diary entries. There is such a discrepancy between private Sylvia and the way she chose to present herself to the world.
These letters do show that she was an extremely hard-working, perfectionistic girl who genuinely tried to be happy. But I have no desire to finish this book at this point in time. Maybe in the future I'll pick it up again. -
Arriba un punt en el qual ja no saps si et sents més en el paper de la mare o directament t'has convertit en la Plath i estàs escrivint amb ella. Això sí, m'ha costat tant llegir les últimes cartes tenint en compte que tots sabem quin era el final.
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Was very interesting to see what Sylvia had to say. I definitely enjoyed it.
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Anche se in questa raccolta di lettere è presente solo un terzo della corrispondenza integrale tra Aurelia Schober e sua figlia, Sylvia Plath, non si può non percepirne, tra le righe, l'evoluzione stilistica. Quell'evoluzione che l'ha resa una delle poetesse più affermate del novecento e l'ha portata al successo solo dopo la sua tragica morte, nel febbraio del 1963.
Una breve esistenza vissuta a pieno tra i brillanti studi universitari allo Smith College, il suo sogno di un "matrimonio letterario" con il poeta inglese Ted Hughes, il successivo trasferimento in Inghilterra, la nascita dei piccoli Frieda e Nicholas, il divorzio e la sua nuova vita da madre single, nella casa londinese precedentemente appartenuta al poeta e drammaturgo irlandese William Butler Yeats.
Un libro fondamentale per gli appassionati della Plath, da aggiungere senza esitazioni alle vostre letture, prima del suo unico romanzo "La campana di vetro" e dopo le varie raccolte di poesie.
Le "Lettere alla madre" svelano un lato della Plath che rimane nascosto nei "Diari" e nel suo romanzo autobiografico, lasciando trasparire la caparbietà, la volontà e la determinazione di riuscire ad affermarsi nel mondo letterario. -
«If I start running now, I will never stop. (...) 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 never quite know what to write when I read something like this, knowing how she ended up. I'd highlight the omnipresent optimism in almost all the letters, underneath which seems to exist a notable sadness and need for self-reassurance. Some letters —especially those of 1962 and 1963— are heartbreaking, not so much because of their content but because of the cry for help that can be sensed in every line, always in a veiled form. I am not (yet) familiar with Sylvia's work, but I loved the way she wrote these letters; the subtle descriptions of moments, places, people. She was indeed a fighter. -
Estas cartas son la manera ideal de conocer más a cómo y quién fue Sylvia Plath. La conexión tan especial que tenía con su madre, a quien le confiaba la mayoría de sus pensamientos y cómo se sentía cada día. La división en épocas que marcaron su vida adulta y las anotaciones de su madre para conocer más el contexto hacen situarte mejor en su historia. Lo peor de todo ha sido ya saber desde el principio qué es el final.
Lo mejor de todo es ver que su obsesión y pasión siempre fue crear y que incluso sus cartas son verdaderas obras de literatura. Encontraba inspiración en todos los aspectos de su vida y no paraba de convertirse ella misma en palabras hasta su final. -
I have mixed feelings about this book. It’s hard to read something when you know how it ends. I felt like this book offered more insight into who Sylvia Plath was but at the same time so much seems to be missing. I don’t know if letters were edited out or Sylvia simply stopped writing as her life spiraled out of control, but the ending and its build up seemed to be missing parts of the story.
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Esto se siente como un rincón muy personal de Sylvia. El libro en general me gustó mucho pero en muchas ocasiones se me hizo infinito porque las cartas eran repetitivas o de entrada no me importaban mucho.
“Toda mi vida me dedicaré a recitar poemas y a amar a las personas y a darles lo mejor de mí misma”. Lo hizo, lo hizooo🖋❤️ -
These letters broke my heart...
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2,5
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"me ha vuelto a tocar <>; pero a pesar de todo, me siento más feliz que nunca en la vida".
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Being a woman’s hard
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I could read this woman's letters all day.
I read The Bell Jar in high school after it was recommended to me by a teacher, and I just didn't get it (I plan to re-read it as an adult, however). I'm not sure why I felt compelled to read "Letters Home" and I was skeptical, thinking, "how interesting could letters from a woman whose writing I've never been interested in be?" Answer: Super dang interesting. I felt like I was embedded within her brain, feeling her trials and tribulations along with her. Her letters to her mother are so very intimate, giving them the feel of a diary. I wanted more with every page turn. It was also a surprise (though it should not have been) to see that she was just like any other regular young woman, who could have been amongst my peers. Who could have been me. I love that these letters highlight her insecurities, her need for perfection, and her cycling between feeling like she is one of the best writers in the world to feeling like she is garbage. I don't think I've ever related so much to another person I've never met in my life (and I know how cheesy that sounds, but damn). I've already ordered her journals from thriftbooks and plan to read the rest of her letters as well, and I cannot wait. -
Esta recopilación de la correspondencia que mantuvieron Sylvia Plath y su madre es fabulosa. Comienza a los dieciocho años de la autora, cuando comienza la aventura de sus estudios universitarios en Smith College. Después de varios éxitos vendiendo poemas y relatos cortos a distintas revistas de su país, Sylvia comienza a estresarse y a querer cosechar más éxitos. No obstante, el rechazo de algunos de sus trabajos conducen a la autora a su primer intento de suicidio. Tras su recuperación, continúa más tranquila sus estudios, y al terminar el curso decide acabar su carrera en Europa. Por ello, llega a Cambridge, donde conocerá a gente muy interesante, y relatará toda clase de aventuras a su madre.
Durante sus estudios en Inglaterra, Sylvia habla en sus cartas de sus viajes por Europa, a Francia, Italia, y lo que más me interesó, a España, por ser mi país de origen. Visitó Madrid y Benidorm, y quedó fascinada, pero lo que menos le gustó fue la corrida de toros a la que asistió, descrita muy bien por ella misma, por cierto.
Entre tanta aventura, conoció a muchos hombres, pero ninguno le hizo sentir verdadero amor, hasta que coincidió con Ted Hughes en una fiesta, un escritor y poeta como ella, de origen irlandés y escocés. En esta cuarta parte de la recopilación de su correspondencia no para de hablar de él a su madre, e incluso en ocasiones parece perder sus ideales de mujer independiente para convertirse en una mujer solícita y anulada, llegando incluso a casarse en secreto con él. Esta boda bien podía haber acabado con su beca de estudios, pero al final consiguió que no la rechazaran hasta terminar la carrera.
Es un lujo poder contar con detalles de su vida en el momento en que escribió sus poemas y cuentos, y sus bellas descripciones de paisajes, experiencias y personas que conoció a largo de todo ese tiempo.
Cabe destacar que en el centro del volumen podemos encontrarnos con unas cuantas magníficas fotografías de la autora con familiares, desde 1950 hasta 1962, con las que poder ponerle cara, no solo a ella, sino a su querida madre, a Warren y a Ted, entre otros. -
Después de leer La campana de cristal, me quedé fascinada con la forma de escribir de Sylvia Plath y los temas que trata, que me resultan muy interesantes. Por lo tanto, me decidí al fin a leer la correspondencia que mantuvo con su madre desde 1950 hasta su muerte. No suelo leer cartas o diarios de escritores, pero este libro es una excepción porque Sylvia Plath es una de las escritoras que más admiro.
Las cartas comienzan cuando entra en la universidad y se aleja de su familia. Me sorprendió el tono tan alegre con el que empieza a comunicarse con su madre, que al poco se vuelve más negativo, cuando comienza a sentirse muy inferior a sus compañeros y se ve desbordada con la asignatura de física. En esta etapa universitaria queda claro lo vital que eran sus estudios para ella, poniéndolos por encima de todo. Podemos apreciar cómo entra en depresión por la forma en la que reacciona a la dificultad que tiene para aprobar física y es algo que me partió el corazón.
Me sentí reflejada sobre todo en su amor por el estudio de las humanidades, la incertidumbre por el futuro que siente, sus ideales y su clara prioridad de sus estudios por encima de lo demás. Además, me encantó leer lo emocionada que estaba cada vez ue visitaba un sitio nuevo y cómo le relataba todo a su madre. Podría haberse dedicado a escribir relatos sobre sus viajes o lo que se hubiera propuesto porque incluso estas cartas, que no estaban pensadas para ser publicadas, están escritas magistralmente y sabe describir sus pensamientos como si se tratara de una obra publicada.
Es una experiencia dura leer las cartas de Sylvia, pero me han parecido un buen acercamiento a la autora y me ha gustado conocerla mejor. -
I've read parts of this book before a very long time ago, so I'm pleased that I've finally gotten around to reading it all the way through now. Sylvia's letters to her family (mainly her mother) exude all the anxiety and excitement of youth, so it was fascinating to get a rare glimpse into Sylvia's personality and how she conducted herself, dealt with her relationships and friendships, and her drive to succeed in her studies. Obviously because she killed herself, the reader can't stop themselves from re-reading parts and trying to find the hints of despair and depression (of which there are many, especially if you're actively looking for them) which would lead to her suicide, but it's the girly, young side of Sylvia that I most enjoyed reading into.
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I think these letters seem a lot more intimate than Sylvia's diaries. I found by reading her poems in chronological order alongside these letters home, a clearer rendering of Plath´s world, or worlds, surfaces. Her letters home were often painfully cheerful and optimistic, it felt somehow unreal standing up against such dark poetry. I got really sad about halfway through. Very genuine and truthful emotions of a hardworking and ambitious girl. Her passions are too strong and her ideals are too vulnerable. It left me quite upset.
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So raw, heartfelt and entirely heartbreaking.
There was a universe contained in her existence, with such incredible depth in feeling and experiencing life and nature;
I cried reading Sivvy's description of going to Paris the first time for its beauty. I wonder if I'll ever get to live a moment so vividly again, just by reading...
There is so much to regret and so much tragedy even after her death. She really could've been so much more if she had stayed strong.
Heart goes out to Frieda Rebecca who is fortunately still alive, and the rest of her family. -
Plath is a master of words. She describes everything vividly. But hard to read more than a few letters at once as she is so intense. She is either ecstatically happy or very down (and I suspect her mother may not have published the letters when she was really down.) She must have been exhausting to live with as her letters are exhausting to read. There is never any downtime; life was lived fully every minute.
