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Paperback. 14,00 / 21,50 cm. In Turkish. 460 p. "Sadece içimde susmak istemeyen bir ses oldugu için yaziyorum." - Sylvia Plath "Benim hayatimin amaci ne ve onunla ne halt edecegim? Bilmiyorum ve korkuyorum. Asla istedigim bütün kitaplari okuyamayacagim; olmak istedigim bütün insanlar olamayacagim ve yasamak istedigim bütün hayatlari yasayamayacagim. Kendimi istedigim bütün becerileri edinecek kadar egitemeyecegim. Bunlari neden istiyorum? Hayatimda mümkün olan zihinsel ve fiziksel tecrübelerin tüm renklerini, tonlarini ve çesitlerini tatmak ve hissetmek istiyorum. Ve korkunç derecede sinirliyim… Ugrunda yasayacagim çok sey var, yine de anlasilmasi mümkün olmayacak kadar hasta ve üzgünüm." Sadece otuz yil yasadi Sylvia Plath ve bu otuz yila firtinali bir hayat ve unutulmaz eserler sigdirdi. 1963 yilinda hayatina kendi eliyle son vermesinden sonra esi Ted Hughes'un büyük kismini sansürleyerek ilk kez yayimlattigi Günlükler, yillar sonra özgün haliyle yayimlanmisti. Elinizdeki kitap da bu ikinci versiyonun tamamina yakin kismini içeriyor. Plath'in hayatinin son on iki yilini kapsayan günlükleri onun özelindeki ve edebi alandaki mücadelelerini veriyor ve okura onu tanimak için genis pencereler açiyor. Günlükler, bu özgün yazari tanimak ve yapitlarini daha iyi anlamak isteyenler için essiz bir basvuru kaynagi, hayranlari için vazgeçilmez bir basucu kitabi.
581 pages, Paperback
First published April 1, 2000
About the author
Sylvia Plath
250 books25.2k followersSylvia Plath was an American poet, novelist, and short story writer. Known primarily for her poetry, Plath also wrote a semi-autobiographical novel, The Bell Jar, under the pseudonym Victoria Lucas. The book's protagonist, Esther Greenwood, is a bright, ambitious student at Smith College who begins to experience a mental breakdown while interning for a fashion magazine in New York. The plot parallels Plath's experience interning at Mademoiselle magazine and subsequent mental breakdown and suicide attempt.
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August 18, 2024
The Problem of Sylvia Plath, Her Poetry, and the Necessity of Her Journals
Because of her suicide at the age of 30, many critics have labeled her either immature or hysterical--while other critics have taken it upon themselves to defend her integrity. Those who have championed her work find they do so at personal cost. Unfortunately, her personal life, and the circumstances surrounding her death have had an adverse effect on how she is read.
Quite instinctively, one knows the implications that may be drawn when acknowledging a liking for her poetry. By announcing your admiration for Plath, you may find yourself under suspicion for morbidity, bad taste, and even doctrinaire feminism.
However, if you believe Plath is one of the more important poets of the 20th century and that she's had a lasting effect on lyric poetry, one cannot deny the import of her work. Although, beware, her work is seen through many lenses. Even admiring lenses can cloud one's judgment.
Many admirers make the mistake of imagining Plath to be a Phaedra--a spurned woman, a dangerous woman, and a victim. But the speaker in her poetry is just as multidimensional as Plath was herself. Despite the fact that she wrote from the emotional realities of her life, one cannot stress enough, how important it is to separate the person from the creative result.
It is because of this confusion between the two, that the Unabridged Journals bear the burden of illumination. They are a significant contribution to our understanding of Plath and Plath scholarship.
The journals allow us to see Plath’s joyful, backbreaking work. They allow us to see the methodical revisions, the many thoughtful ways in which she crafted her poems. They allow us to see the seams and underpinnings necessary in the making of lasting poetry.
Though Plath's sensibility is dark, and though she twists nature to her own effect, like so many other poets and fiction writers, there is something uncommon about her work and the strength and momentum that builds poem-to-poem. There is a forcefulness of the persona speaking through her work, and then too, there is her strong inclination toward wholeness and harmony; although, many only see the jaded and sardonic undercurrents.
Yet, one of the most important aspects of her work, an aspect that has often been neglected, has to do with the idea of the spirit derailed from its source, and how that spirit is always trying to find its way back to the source. The speaker is constantly in flight, searching for a means of return.
This is the dilemma of the soul. It is the dilemma of the artist in his or her calling, and that spiritual pull between the real world and the state of imagining which becomes, through physical and mental exertion, its own state.
It is because of this that I maintain that Plath was brilliant and that she created her final poems with genius. Her final book, known as Ariel, was a swift achievement. Many of the poems written in the final months of her life were characterized by a propulsion, or forward momentum, a gallop toward an end.
Like Shakespeare’s Ariel, the spirit of Plath’s work appears to be driven toward an understanding of enslavement and the necessity of freedom. The work speaks to the alchemy of person-hood and art formation. For Plath, this was a quest for liberation, and a means to end her suffering.
There is a dichotomy between the mechanical and mathematical aspects of poetry and something outside reason. Plath merges form with associative lyricism until the scaffolding of her old style falls away and we are left with Ariel.
To know Plath more closely, one may want to read her journals. They give the reader a glimpse into the ways she worked and into the associative powers of her mind. The journals allow the reader to separate the person from the persona. It gives a sense of the ordinary, and humanizes the writer.
One sees the struggles she endured, in her daily life, as an imperfect person in the pursuit of her art. And it is "One Art," like Bishop's art, in its own way, so precisely crafted and yet as soon as it is mastered—lost.
Unfortunately, some of her journals went missing or were destroyed. But the journals that remain allow a close reader to see some of her ideas before they appeared in print. They give a sense to how she may have approached her work.
There is no doubt Sylvia Plath's art was a labor of love. Her euphoria and intensity in the creating of it is tangible. It is important to read the journals, and her poetry as it is appears on the page, and to remember, all art is artifice. All true artists create not just a world, but a mythology within which they exist.
Although Plath's mythology may at times be off-putting due to a kind of forcefulness and rancor, it is a distinct voice full of human emotion. The world she creates is recognizable, but only as far as a dream may be recognizable. In truth, what we encounter cannot be Plath herself. Her final poetry is a brilliant invention, prepared by a writer in pursuit of her very best.
It is a visionary form: a reality that seems more real, only because of its extreme divergence. Great poets trick their listeners and readers by making the art form feel more real. Perhaps this was her “call,” as Sylvia Plath said so herself. But the call of the reader is to recognize the trick and then to commend the art for brilliant illusions.
Because of her suicide at the age of 30, many critics have labeled her either immature or hysterical--while other critics have taken it upon themselves to defend her integrity. Those who have championed her work find they do so at personal cost. Unfortunately, her personal life, and the circumstances surrounding her death have had an adverse effect on how she is read.
Quite instinctively, one knows the implications that may be drawn when acknowledging a liking for her poetry. By announcing your admiration for Plath, you may find yourself under suspicion for morbidity, bad taste, and even doctrinaire feminism.
However, if you believe Plath is one of the more important poets of the 20th century and that she's had a lasting effect on lyric poetry, one cannot deny the import of her work. Although, beware, her work is seen through many lenses. Even admiring lenses can cloud one's judgment.
Many admirers make the mistake of imagining Plath to be a Phaedra--a spurned woman, a dangerous woman, and a victim. But the speaker in her poetry is just as multidimensional as Plath was herself. Despite the fact that she wrote from the emotional realities of her life, one cannot stress enough, how important it is to separate the person from the creative result.
It is because of this confusion between the two, that the Unabridged Journals bear the burden of illumination. They are a significant contribution to our understanding of Plath and Plath scholarship.
The journals allow us to see Plath’s joyful, backbreaking work. They allow us to see the methodical revisions, the many thoughtful ways in which she crafted her poems. They allow us to see the seams and underpinnings necessary in the making of lasting poetry.
Though Plath's sensibility is dark, and though she twists nature to her own effect, like so many other poets and fiction writers, there is something uncommon about her work and the strength and momentum that builds poem-to-poem. There is a forcefulness of the persona speaking through her work, and then too, there is her strong inclination toward wholeness and harmony; although, many only see the jaded and sardonic undercurrents.
Yet, one of the most important aspects of her work, an aspect that has often been neglected, has to do with the idea of the spirit derailed from its source, and how that spirit is always trying to find its way back to the source. The speaker is constantly in flight, searching for a means of return.
This is the dilemma of the soul. It is the dilemma of the artist in his or her calling, and that spiritual pull between the real world and the state of imagining which becomes, through physical and mental exertion, its own state.
It is because of this that I maintain that Plath was brilliant and that she created her final poems with genius. Her final book, known as Ariel, was a swift achievement. Many of the poems written in the final months of her life were characterized by a propulsion, or forward momentum, a gallop toward an end.
Like Shakespeare’s Ariel, the spirit of Plath’s work appears to be driven toward an understanding of enslavement and the necessity of freedom. The work speaks to the alchemy of person-hood and art formation. For Plath, this was a quest for liberation, and a means to end her suffering.
There is a dichotomy between the mechanical and mathematical aspects of poetry and something outside reason. Plath merges form with associative lyricism until the scaffolding of her old style falls away and we are left with Ariel.
To know Plath more closely, one may want to read her journals. They give the reader a glimpse into the ways she worked and into the associative powers of her mind. The journals allow the reader to separate the person from the persona. It gives a sense of the ordinary, and humanizes the writer.
One sees the struggles she endured, in her daily life, as an imperfect person in the pursuit of her art. And it is "One Art," like Bishop's art, in its own way, so precisely crafted and yet as soon as it is mastered—lost.
Unfortunately, some of her journals went missing or were destroyed. But the journals that remain allow a close reader to see some of her ideas before they appeared in print. They give a sense to how she may have approached her work.
There is no doubt Sylvia Plath's art was a labor of love. Her euphoria and intensity in the creating of it is tangible. It is important to read the journals, and her poetry as it is appears on the page, and to remember, all art is artifice. All true artists create not just a world, but a mythology within which they exist.
Although Plath's mythology may at times be off-putting due to a kind of forcefulness and rancor, it is a distinct voice full of human emotion. The world she creates is recognizable, but only as far as a dream may be recognizable. In truth, what we encounter cannot be Plath herself. Her final poetry is a brilliant invention, prepared by a writer in pursuit of her very best.
It is a visionary form: a reality that seems more real, only because of its extreme divergence. Great poets trick their listeners and readers by making the art form feel more real. Perhaps this was her “call,” as Sylvia Plath said so herself. But the call of the reader is to recognize the trick and then to commend the art for brilliant illusions.
June 5, 2015
I decided I was going to read this for two reasons: Sylvia Plath intrigued me; and I need to write better journal entries.
It is sometimes hard to wrap your head around the fact that she was so young when she wrote those journals, and constantly I had to keep reminding myself. She seemed extremely mature for her age. I found myself only reading 20, 30 pages at a time, because her words were so full of introspection, I had to continually go back and reread passages and reflect, soul-search about my own life. It was exhausting (and worthwhile).
The first half of this book is absolutely remarkable. Especially for being just a journal. After she married, however, I think her tone changed. Her journaling was permanently altered. She made herself so little when compared to the “great Ted Hughes”. She refrained from “nagging” him, but he could nag her, because of his “superior seat”. Out of the pair he was always the better, bigger and smarter in her eyes. Her feminist words of before were somehow not put into action, and she became rather submissive and accepting too much of his behavior and betrayals. I understand her position and era of misogyny, but after being so entirely compelled by this woman’s words, I can’t lie here and say her submission didn’t bother me.
The introspection halted and her diaries started resembling a drone list of clipped everyday happenings and to-do lists. The student Sylvia was interesting, incredibly eloquent and contemplative; alive and iridescent, even at her worst depressions. The working, married Sylvia was washed out and colorless. But that’s when she wrote her most important masterpieces. So I suppose she just transplanted her magic from journaling to higher purposes.
This book was a long, tough read. Took me forever to finish. But it was more than worth it. Sylvia Plath was something else. Her words transcend journaling.
It is sometimes hard to wrap your head around the fact that she was so young when she wrote those journals, and constantly I had to keep reminding myself. She seemed extremely mature for her age. I found myself only reading 20, 30 pages at a time, because her words were so full of introspection, I had to continually go back and reread passages and reflect, soul-search about my own life. It was exhausting (and worthwhile).
The first half of this book is absolutely remarkable. Especially for being just a journal. After she married, however, I think her tone changed. Her journaling was permanently altered. She made herself so little when compared to the “great Ted Hughes”. She refrained from “nagging” him, but he could nag her, because of his “superior seat”. Out of the pair he was always the better, bigger and smarter in her eyes. Her feminist words of before were somehow not put into action, and she became rather submissive and accepting too much of his behavior and betrayals. I understand her position and era of misogyny, but after being so entirely compelled by this woman’s words, I can’t lie here and say her submission didn’t bother me.
The introspection halted and her diaries started resembling a drone list of clipped everyday happenings and to-do lists. The student Sylvia was interesting, incredibly eloquent and contemplative; alive and iridescent, even at her worst depressions. The working, married Sylvia was washed out and colorless. But that’s when she wrote her most important masterpieces. So I suppose she just transplanted her magic from journaling to higher purposes.
This book was a long, tough read. Took me forever to finish. But it was more than worth it. Sylvia Plath was something else. Her words transcend journaling.
September 22, 2021
Семейное счастье = Semeynoye Schast'ye = Family Happiness, Leo Tolstoy
Family Happiness is an 1859 novella written by Leo Tolstoy, first published in The Russian Messenger.
The story concerns the love and marriage of a young girl, Mashechka (17 years old), and the much older Sergey Mikhaylych (36), an old family friend. The story is narrated by Masha.
After a courtship that has the trappings of a mere family friendship, Masha's love grows and expands until she can no longer contain it.
She reveals it to Sergey Mikhaylych and discovers that he also is deeply in love. If he has resisted her it was because of his fear that the age difference between them would lead the very young Masha to tire of him.
He likes to be still and quiet, he tells her, while she will want to explore and discover more and more about life.
Ecstatically and passionately happy, the pair immediately engages to be married. Once married they move to Mikhaylych's home.
They are both members of the landed Russian upper class. Masha soon feels impatient with the quiet order of life on the estate, notwithstanding the powerful understanding and love that remains between the two.
To assuage her anxiety, they decide to spend a few weeks in St. Petersburg. Sergey Mikhaylych agrees to take Masha to an aristocratic ball. He hates "society" but she is enchanted with it.
They go again, and then again. She becomes a regular, the darling of the countesses and princes, with her rural charm and her beauty.
Sergey Mikhaylych, at first very pleased with Petersburg society's enthusiasm for his wife, frowns on her passion for "society"; but he does not try to influence Masha.
Out of respect for her, Sergey Mikhaylych will scrupulously allow his young wife to discover the truth about the emptiness and ugliness of "society" on her own.
But his trust in her is damaged as he watches how dazzled she is by this world. Finally they confront each other about their differences.
They argue but do not treat their conflict as something that can be resolved through negotiation. Both are shocked and mortified that their intense love has suddenly been called into question. Something has changed.
Because of pride, they both refuse to talk about it. The trust and the closeness are gone. Only courteous friendship remains.
Masha yearns to return to the passionate closeness they had known before Petersburg. They go back to the country.
Though she gives birth to children and the couple has a good life, she despairs. They can barely be together by themselves.
Finally she asks him to explain why he did not try to guide and direct her away from the balls and the parties in Petersburg.
Why did they lose their intense love?
Why don't they try to bring it back?
His answer is not the answer she wants to hear, but it settles her down and prepares her for a long life of comfortable "Family Happiness".
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز بیست و دوم ماه ژوئن سال 2010میلادی
عنوان: سعادت زناشویی؛ نویسنده: لئو (لیو) تولستوی؛مترجم: سروش حبیبی؛ تهران، چشمه، 1389؛ در 135ص؛ چاپ دوم 1390؛ شابک9789643625832؛ موضوع: داستانهای نویسندگان روسیه - سده 19م
سعادت زناشویی؛ داستان زندگی دخترکی هفده ساله و جوان است، که با خواهر و دایه اش، در روستایی زندگی میکنند؛ «ماشا» درگیر عشقی دوسویه است؛ «تولستوی» حال و هوای عشق زندگیبخش، «ماشا» را با مهارت همیشگی خویش، از زبان دخترک به تصویر میکشد؛ داستان از میانه ی خود، حال و هوایی شبیه «آناکارنینا» پیدا میکند.؛
نقل نمونه متن: (من نمیتوانم دختر جوانی را تحسین کنم، که تنها وقتی زنده است، که مردم از او تعریف کنند، اما به محض اینکه تنها میماند، فرو میپاشد، و چیزی به مذاقش خوش نمیآید، کسی که هیچ از خودش ندارد، و تنها برای عرضه زنده است؛ چنانکه گفتی افکارش را دنبال کنان گفت: بله ما همه و خاصه شما زنها، باید کشاکش زشت، و بیمعنای زندگی را، تنها طی کنیم، تا به اصل پاکیزه ی آن برسیم. کسی تجربه های دیگری را، باور نمیکند، و نمیپذیرد؛ خیلی مانده بود، که تو از دریای دیوانگیها، و بازیهای کودکانه ی زندگی، که من درگیریات با آنها را، تحسین میکردم، بیرون آیی؛ این است که آسوده ات گذاشته ام، تا همه چیز را، خود بیازمایی، و بحران شور شبابت بگذرد، و احساس میکردم، که حق ندارم در تنگنایت بفشارم، گرچه برای من این جوانیها، مدتها بود سپری شده بود؛ برای صدمین بار، به خود میگویم چه شد که کار به اینجا کشید؛ شوهرم نیز، به همان صورت است که بود، فقط چین میان ابروانش عمیقتر، و موهای سفید شقیقه هایش، بیشتر شده است، و نگاهش که زمانی نافذ و پیگیر بود، پشت پرده ی ابهام پنهان، و از من گریزان است؛ من هم همانم که بودم، گیرم دلم از عشق و میل به دوست داشتن خالی است؛ دیگر به کار کردن احساس نیاز نمیکنم، و از خودم رضایتی ندارم؛ شور مذهبی و وجد عشق، و رضایت از سرشاری زندگی، در نظرم به گذشته ای بسیار دور واپس رفته است، و ناممکن جلوه میکند؛ زندگی برای همنوع، که زمانی در نظرم چنان بدیهی، و درست مینمود، امروز به دشواری برایم فهمیدنی است؛ زندگی برای همنوع، جاییکه میلی به زندگی، برای خودم نیز ندارم، چه معنایی دارد؟
روزها و هفتهها، بیآنکه متوجه باشیم، سپری میشد، حال آنکه در حقیقت دو ماهی بود پربار از احساسها، و هیجانها، و خوشیهاییکه برای شیرین کردن عمری، کفایت میکرد، کتاب میخواندم، پیانو مینواختم، یا در کنار مادرش میماندم، یا به امور مدرسه میپرداختم، اما این کارها، همه را برای آن میکردم، که به او مربوط بود، و موجب رضایت خاطر او میشد، به نظرم مضحک میآمد، فکر کنم که در دنیا، کاری غیر از آنچه به او مربوط شود، وجود دارد، و او مرا اولین، و بهترین زن دنیا میشمرد، و من میکوشیدم که در چشم اولین و بهترین مرد دنیا، همین باشم.)؛ پایان نقل
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 16/08/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ 30/06/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
Family Happiness is an 1859 novella written by Leo Tolstoy, first published in The Russian Messenger.
The story concerns the love and marriage of a young girl, Mashechka (17 years old), and the much older Sergey Mikhaylych (36), an old family friend. The story is narrated by Masha.
After a courtship that has the trappings of a mere family friendship, Masha's love grows and expands until she can no longer contain it.
She reveals it to Sergey Mikhaylych and discovers that he also is deeply in love. If he has resisted her it was because of his fear that the age difference between them would lead the very young Masha to tire of him.
He likes to be still and quiet, he tells her, while she will want to explore and discover more and more about life.
Ecstatically and passionately happy, the pair immediately engages to be married. Once married they move to Mikhaylych's home.
They are both members of the landed Russian upper class. Masha soon feels impatient with the quiet order of life on the estate, notwithstanding the powerful understanding and love that remains between the two.
To assuage her anxiety, they decide to spend a few weeks in St. Petersburg. Sergey Mikhaylych agrees to take Masha to an aristocratic ball. He hates "society" but she is enchanted with it.
They go again, and then again. She becomes a regular, the darling of the countesses and princes, with her rural charm and her beauty.
Sergey Mikhaylych, at first very pleased with Petersburg society's enthusiasm for his wife, frowns on her passion for "society"; but he does not try to influence Masha.
Out of respect for her, Sergey Mikhaylych will scrupulously allow his young wife to discover the truth about the emptiness and ugliness of "society" on her own.
But his trust in her is damaged as he watches how dazzled she is by this world. Finally they confront each other about their differences.
They argue but do not treat their conflict as something that can be resolved through negotiation. Both are shocked and mortified that their intense love has suddenly been called into question. Something has changed.
Because of pride, they both refuse to talk about it. The trust and the closeness are gone. Only courteous friendship remains.
Masha yearns to return to the passionate closeness they had known before Petersburg. They go back to the country.
Though she gives birth to children and the couple has a good life, she despairs. They can barely be together by themselves.
Finally she asks him to explain why he did not try to guide and direct her away from the balls and the parties in Petersburg.
Why did they lose their intense love?
Why don't they try to bring it back?
His answer is not the answer she wants to hear, but it settles her down and prepares her for a long life of comfortable "Family Happiness".
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز بیست و دوم ماه ژوئن سال 2010میلادی
عنوان: سعادت زناشویی؛ نویسنده: لئو (لیو) تولستوی؛مترجم: سروش حبیبی؛ تهران، چشمه، 1389؛ در 135ص؛ چاپ دوم 1390؛ شابک9789643625832؛ موضوع: داستانهای نویسندگان روسیه - سده 19م
سعادت زناشویی؛ داستان زندگی دخترکی هفده ساله و جوان است، که با خواهر و دایه اش، در روستایی زندگی میکنند؛ «ماشا» درگیر عشقی دوسویه است؛ «تولستوی» حال و هوای عشق زندگیبخش، «ماشا» را با مهارت همیشگی خویش، از زبان دخترک به تصویر میکشد؛ داستان از میانه ی خود، حال و هوایی شبیه «آناکارنینا» پیدا میکند.؛
نقل نمونه متن: (من نمیتوانم دختر جوانی را تحسین کنم، که تنها وقتی زنده است، که مردم از او تعریف کنند، اما به محض اینکه تنها میماند، فرو میپاشد، و چیزی به مذاقش خوش نمیآید، کسی که هیچ از خودش ندارد، و تنها برای عرضه زنده است؛ چنانکه گفتی افکارش را دنبال کنان گفت: بله ما همه و خاصه شما زنها، باید کشاکش زشت، و بیمعنای زندگی را، تنها طی کنیم، تا به اصل پاکیزه ی آن برسیم. کسی تجربه های دیگری را، باور نمیکند، و نمیپذیرد؛ خیلی مانده بود، که تو از دریای دیوانگیها، و بازیهای کودکانه ی زندگی، که من درگیریات با آنها را، تحسین میکردم، بیرون آیی؛ این است که آسوده ات گذاشته ام، تا همه چیز را، خود بیازمایی، و بحران شور شبابت بگذرد، و احساس میکردم، که حق ندارم در تنگنایت بفشارم، گرچه برای من این جوانیها، مدتها بود سپری شده بود؛ برای صدمین بار، به خود میگویم چه شد که کار به اینجا کشید؛ شوهرم نیز، به همان صورت است که بود، فقط چین میان ابروانش عمیقتر، و موهای سفید شقیقه هایش، بیشتر شده است، و نگاهش که زمانی نافذ و پیگیر بود، پشت پرده ی ابهام پنهان، و از من گریزان است؛ من هم همانم که بودم، گیرم دلم از عشق و میل به دوست داشتن خالی است؛ دیگر به کار کردن احساس نیاز نمیکنم، و از خودم رضایتی ندارم؛ شور مذهبی و وجد عشق، و رضایت از سرشاری زندگی، در نظرم به گذشته ای بسیار دور واپس رفته است، و ناممکن جلوه میکند؛ زندگی برای همنوع، که زمانی در نظرم چنان بدیهی، و درست مینمود، امروز به دشواری برایم فهمیدنی است؛ زندگی برای همنوع، جاییکه میلی به زندگی، برای خودم نیز ندارم، چه معنایی دارد؟
روزها و هفتهها، بیآنکه متوجه باشیم، سپری میشد، حال آنکه در حقیقت دو ماهی بود پربار از احساسها، و هیجانها، و خوشیهاییکه برای شیرین کردن عمری، کفایت میکرد، کتاب میخواندم، پیانو مینواختم، یا در کنار مادرش میماندم، یا به امور مدرسه میپرداختم، اما این کارها، همه را برای آن میکردم، که به او مربوط بود، و موجب رضایت خاطر او میشد، به نظرم مضحک میآمد، فکر کنم که در دنیا، کاری غیر از آنچه به او مربوط شود، وجود دارد، و او مرا اولین، و بهترین زن دنیا میشمرد، و من میکوشیدم که در چشم اولین و بهترین مرد دنیا، همین باشم.)؛ پایان نقل
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 16/08/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ 30/06/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
July 16, 2022
"this loneliness will blur and diminish, no doubt, when tomorrow i plunge again into classes, into the necessity of studying for exams. but now, that false purpose is lifted and i am spinning in a temporary vacuum. at home i rested and played, here, where i work, the routine is momentarily suspended and i am lost. there is no living being on earth at this moment except myself."
sylvia... these are not words, these are knives aimed at me.
sylvia... these are not words, these are knives aimed at me.
April 12, 2022
The Journals of Sylvia Plath, Sylvia Plath
An exact and complete transcription of the journals kept by Sylvia Plath over the last twelve years of her life. Sylvia Plath kept a record of her life from the age of eleven until her death at thirty. The journals are characterized by the vigorous immediacy with which she records her inner thoughts and feelings and the intricacies of her daily life. Apart from being a key source for her early writing, they give us an intimate portrait of the writer who was to produce in the last seven months of her life the extraordinary poems which have secured her reputation as one of the greatest of twentieth century poets.
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز بیست و نهم ماه آگوست سال2004میلادی
عنوان: خاطرات سیلویا پلات؛ با مقدمه ای از: تد هیوز؛ تدوین فرانسیس مک کالو؛ مترجم: مهسا ملک مرزبان؛ تهران نشر نی، سال1382؛ در488ص؛ شابک9643126595؛ چاپ دوم سال1386؛ شابک9789643126599؛ چاپ سوم سال1393؛ چاپ چهارم سال1395؛ چاپ پنجم سال1396؛ موضوع یادمانهای سیلویا پلات (پلت)؛ شاعر ایالات متحده آمریکا - سده20م
سیلویا پلات از زمانیکه کودکی بیش نبودند، نگاشتن یادمانهای روزانه خویش را آغاز کردند، و تا زمان رفتنشان از این جهان آن کار را پیگیری کردند؛ پس از سری اشعار ایشان، این کتاب مهمترین اثر ایشان به شمار میرود؛ نوشته های این دفتر، چیزی شبیه دفترهای یادمانهای دیگر بود: «نگارش رخدادهای روزمره، بازخوانی یادمانها، پرداختن به زندگی خصوصی، و اینکه، هیچکس جاودان نمیماند» ـ اما با اینهمه چیزی فراتر از همه ی اینها نیز هست؛ «پلات» دفتر یادمانهایشان را «دیوان رؤیاها، دستورها و ضروریات» نام نهاده اند، که به معنی دقیق همان «ساراگاسو»ی ایشانست، و منظورشان گنجینه ی خیالات است؛ یعنی همان ضمیرِ ناخودآگاهِ، داده هایی که برای نخستینبار در این صفحات آمده اند، همانند زندگینامه های معمولی تنها شرح زندگی نویسنده نیستند، بلکه سرچشمه و منشأ، بیشتر کارهای ایشان هستند؛ برای نویسنده ای که کارشان تا این حد بر جزئیات و ظرایف زندگینامه ای خویش متمرکز است، روابط اهمیتی ویژه دارند؛ این زندگینامه خودنوشت، همانند آثار دیگر نویسندگان، اعتراف نیست، بلکه بیشتر مفهومی اساطیری دارد، همچنان که در کتاب، بخشهایی در اسطوره شناسی، نوشته «جودیث کرول» به روشنی دیده میشود؛ دفتر حاضر چیزهایی ارائه میدهد، که از هر زندگینامه ی خودنوشت مهمتر است؛ از میان این صفحات و عبارات دلنشین آن، صدایی به گوش میرسد، که همانند اشعار «سیلویا» صادق و بیهمانند هستند
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 20/03/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ 22/01/1401هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
An exact and complete transcription of the journals kept by Sylvia Plath over the last twelve years of her life. Sylvia Plath kept a record of her life from the age of eleven until her death at thirty. The journals are characterized by the vigorous immediacy with which she records her inner thoughts and feelings and the intricacies of her daily life. Apart from being a key source for her early writing, they give us an intimate portrait of the writer who was to produce in the last seven months of her life the extraordinary poems which have secured her reputation as one of the greatest of twentieth century poets.
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: روز بیست و نهم ماه آگوست سال2004میلادی
عنوان: خاطرات سیلویا پلات؛ با مقدمه ای از: تد هیوز؛ تدوین فرانسیس مک کالو؛ مترجم: مهسا ملک مرزبان؛ تهران نشر نی، سال1382؛ در488ص؛ شابک9643126595؛ چاپ دوم سال1386؛ شابک9789643126599؛ چاپ سوم سال1393؛ چاپ چهارم سال1395؛ چاپ پنجم سال1396؛ موضوع یادمانهای سیلویا پلات (پلت)؛ شاعر ایالات متحده آمریکا - سده20م
سیلویا پلات از زمانیکه کودکی بیش نبودند، نگاشتن یادمانهای روزانه خویش را آغاز کردند، و تا زمان رفتنشان از این جهان آن کار را پیگیری کردند؛ پس از سری اشعار ایشان، این کتاب مهمترین اثر ایشان به شمار میرود؛ نوشته های این دفتر، چیزی شبیه دفترهای یادمانهای دیگر بود: «نگارش رخدادهای روزمره، بازخوانی یادمانها، پرداختن به زندگی خصوصی، و اینکه، هیچکس جاودان نمیماند» ـ اما با اینهمه چیزی فراتر از همه ی اینها نیز هست؛ «پلات» دفتر یادمانهایشان را «دیوان رؤیاها، دستورها و ضروریات» نام نهاده اند، که به معنی دقیق همان «ساراگاسو»ی ایشانست، و منظورشان گنجینه ی خیالات است؛ یعنی همان ضمیرِ ناخودآگاهِ، داده هایی که برای نخستینبار در این صفحات آمده اند، همانند زندگینامه های معمولی تنها شرح زندگی نویسنده نیستند، بلکه سرچشمه و منشأ، بیشتر کارهای ایشان هستند؛ برای نویسنده ای که کارشان تا این حد بر جزئیات و ظرایف زندگینامه ای خویش متمرکز است، روابط اهمیتی ویژه دارند؛ این زندگینامه خودنوشت، همانند آثار دیگر نویسندگان، اعتراف نیست، بلکه بیشتر مفهومی اساطیری دارد، همچنان که در کتاب، بخشهایی در اسطوره شناسی، نوشته «جودیث کرول» به روشنی دیده میشود؛ دفتر حاضر چیزهایی ارائه میدهد، که از هر زندگینامه ی خودنوشت مهمتر است؛ از میان این صفحات و عبارات دلنشین آن، صدایی به گوش میرسد، که همانند اشعار «سیلویا» صادق و بیهمانند هستند
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 20/03/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ 22/01/1401هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
November 14, 2024
I Adore this novella, but as great writing it just doesn’t cut it. Why not?
Well, because Tolstoy is trying his darnedest here to admonish the youth of Russia to avoid the way of all flesh.
And that’s dangerous.
For many kids, it’s like trying to build a dam on the raging Mississippi at its springtime peak. Don’t go there.
And that’s why I envisage Tolstoy in this novella as trying to paint a nice picture of coming of age, from the genteel POV of the Old Folks at Home...
And I see kids sneering at that image!
The bottom line is that youth must learn its own lessons. Late or soon.
And the moment a brighter day begins to dawn is the moment to lay down the brass tacks of life:
And the Hope that comes out of accepting them realistically.
NOT from a fleece-gloved vantage point of comforting bourgeois values as this book tries to do -
But from words that kill.
And in consequence, RESTORE Life and Value to their lives.
No, Lev Tolstoy said it so much BETTER with A Confession, for giving kids the straight facts about his OWN rough ride over the steep speed bumps of middle class shibboleths won him Far more lasting credit.
So, Family Happiness doesn’t make the grade -
But it reads like a late post impressionist fantasy of the vivid sunset hues at the close of a faded day -
And the possible, though never here realized, rebirth from its ashes of a Brand New one, brimming with boundless energy and fire.
For Tolstoy, THAT was his Real Calling.
Well, because Tolstoy is trying his darnedest here to admonish the youth of Russia to avoid the way of all flesh.
And that’s dangerous.
For many kids, it’s like trying to build a dam on the raging Mississippi at its springtime peak. Don’t go there.
And that’s why I envisage Tolstoy in this novella as trying to paint a nice picture of coming of age, from the genteel POV of the Old Folks at Home...
And I see kids sneering at that image!
The bottom line is that youth must learn its own lessons. Late or soon.
And the moment a brighter day begins to dawn is the moment to lay down the brass tacks of life:
And the Hope that comes out of accepting them realistically.
NOT from a fleece-gloved vantage point of comforting bourgeois values as this book tries to do -
But from words that kill.
And in consequence, RESTORE Life and Value to their lives.
No, Lev Tolstoy said it so much BETTER with A Confession, for giving kids the straight facts about his OWN rough ride over the steep speed bumps of middle class shibboleths won him Far more lasting credit.
So, Family Happiness doesn’t make the grade -
But it reads like a late post impressionist fantasy of the vivid sunset hues at the close of a faded day -
And the possible, though never here realized, rebirth from its ashes of a Brand New one, brimming with boundless energy and fire.
For Tolstoy, THAT was his Real Calling.
February 11, 2016
"So it all moves in a pageant towards the ending, it's own ending. Everywhere, imperceptibly or otherwise, things are passing, ending, going. And there will be other summers, other band concerts, but never this one, never again, never as now. Next year I will not be the self of this year now. And that is why I laugh at the transient, the ephemeral; laugh, while clutching, holding, tenderly, like a fool his toy, cracked glass, water through fingers. For all the writing, for all the invention of engines to express & convey & capture life, it is the living of it that is the gimmick. It goes by, and whatevere dream you use to dope up the pains and hurts, it goes. Delude yourself about printed islands of permanence. You've only got so long to live. You're getting your dream. Things are working, blind forces, no personal spiritual beneficent ones except your own intelligence and the good will of a few other fools and fellow humans. So hit it while it's hot."
Jesus. My college diaries don't sound like that, let me tell you. But of course, Sylvia Plath has always operated on another level entirely, and her journals prove nothing else, it's that Plath was in a category by herself.
The newly-unabridged journals of Sylvia Plath are a fascinating and intimate look into her life and her mind - and at the same time, the reader is kept mostly at arm's length. For every page where we see Plath grappling with her depression, or her anxieties about writing, or her complex relationship with Ted Hughes, we have to wade through hundreds of pages that are nothing but Plath describing who she spent the afternoon with and what they wore and what the room looked like (As a writing exercise, she would record everyone's outfits and physical details of the places she visited - I'm sure it helped her as a writer, but for a reader, it's a maddening slog). And even though this book contains hundreds of pages' worth of journal entries that were previously kept out of the public eye (thanks, Ted), this is far from a no-holds-barred tell-all. Many of Plath's journals have been destroyed, and Plath went through long periods where she didn't do any diary-keeping at all. So we get to read her college journals up until July 1953, and then there's nothing until 1955 - so anyone going into this book expecting raw, emotional entries written after Plath's suicide attempt in August 1953, and her last year at Smith following her hospitalization, will be disappointed. (I freely admit that I'm one of these ghouls - the first time I read The Diary of Anne Frank in elementary school, I was genuinely disappointed that the final entry wasn't written as the Gestapo were raiding the attic)
At over seven hundred pages, this book requires a lot of commitment. Even die-hard Plath fans will find themselves struggling to stay invested - the downside of reading real diaries is that there's never anything resembling a plot to keep the reader interested, unless that plot is "we're hiding from the Nazis" or something like that. But if you stick with it, there's a lot to discover. I identified very strongly with the college entries, because it's a lot of "what am I supposed to do with my life/am I actually talented/when am I going to get a boyfriend" that will be very, very familiar to anyone who remembers that period of their lives. Plath also writes frankly about what it's really like to make a living as a writer - once she and Ted are married, they're both constantly sending stories to magazines, working on their books, and applying for writing fellowships. Plath is always reminding herself to write more in her entries, setting goals for herself like "write for two hours every day" or "finish ten poems and send them to publishers." It's a very realistic depiction of what it actually means to be a writer.
The most interesting part, for many people, will be after Plath marries Ted Hughes. I didn't know much about their married life, aside from the fact that Ted was responsible for fucking up a lot of Plath's poetry collections after her death, and the way Plath writes about their marriage is really interesting. She fucking adored Hughes, and she seemed to really love her role as a housewife - she's always baking cakes and throwing dinner parties, and at times it seems like she enjoyed being an author's wife more than being an author herself. She believed that Ted was the real talent, and seemed very happy to play second fiddle to him (so it's a delightful irony that Plath is now the more famous name, while Ted Hughes is known primarily as "Sylvia Plath's jealous husband"). As I said earlier, their relationship was complex. Plath freely acknowledges in her diaries that Ted is a surrogate father figure for her, and there's a section where she realizes Ted is cheating on her and is devastated.
Throughout the book, you can see Plath struggling with her own personal demons, and trying to push back at the depression and anxiety that eventually killed her. In a way, I appreciated how long this volume is, because it allows you to see that Sylvia Plath was more than just a writer who killed herself. She had good days and bad days, she was complicated, she was happy and sad and scared and angry, and she was alive.
"I must reject the grovelling image of the fearful beast in myself, which is an elaborate escape image, and face, force, days into line. I have an inner fight that won't be conquered by a motto or one night's resolution. My demon of negation will tempt me day by day, and I'll fight it, as something other than my essential self, which I am fighting to save: each day will have something to recommend it...Minute by minute to fight upward. Out from under that black cloud which would annihilate my whole being with its demand for perfection and measure, not of what I am, but of what I am not. I am what I am, and have written, lived, and travelled: I have been worth what I have won, but must work to be worth more. I shall not be more by wishful thinking."
Jesus. My college diaries don't sound like that, let me tell you. But of course, Sylvia Plath has always operated on another level entirely, and her journals prove nothing else, it's that Plath was in a category by herself.
The newly-unabridged journals of Sylvia Plath are a fascinating and intimate look into her life and her mind - and at the same time, the reader is kept mostly at arm's length. For every page where we see Plath grappling with her depression, or her anxieties about writing, or her complex relationship with Ted Hughes, we have to wade through hundreds of pages that are nothing but Plath describing who she spent the afternoon with and what they wore and what the room looked like (As a writing exercise, she would record everyone's outfits and physical details of the places she visited - I'm sure it helped her as a writer, but for a reader, it's a maddening slog). And even though this book contains hundreds of pages' worth of journal entries that were previously kept out of the public eye (thanks, Ted), this is far from a no-holds-barred tell-all. Many of Plath's journals have been destroyed, and Plath went through long periods where she didn't do any diary-keeping at all. So we get to read her college journals up until July 1953, and then there's nothing until 1955 - so anyone going into this book expecting raw, emotional entries written after Plath's suicide attempt in August 1953, and her last year at Smith following her hospitalization, will be disappointed. (I freely admit that I'm one of these ghouls - the first time I read The Diary of Anne Frank in elementary school, I was genuinely disappointed that the final entry wasn't written as the Gestapo were raiding the attic)
At over seven hundred pages, this book requires a lot of commitment. Even die-hard Plath fans will find themselves struggling to stay invested - the downside of reading real diaries is that there's never anything resembling a plot to keep the reader interested, unless that plot is "we're hiding from the Nazis" or something like that. But if you stick with it, there's a lot to discover. I identified very strongly with the college entries, because it's a lot of "what am I supposed to do with my life/am I actually talented/when am I going to get a boyfriend" that will be very, very familiar to anyone who remembers that period of their lives. Plath also writes frankly about what it's really like to make a living as a writer - once she and Ted are married, they're both constantly sending stories to magazines, working on their books, and applying for writing fellowships. Plath is always reminding herself to write more in her entries, setting goals for herself like "write for two hours every day" or "finish ten poems and send them to publishers." It's a very realistic depiction of what it actually means to be a writer.
The most interesting part, for many people, will be after Plath marries Ted Hughes. I didn't know much about their married life, aside from the fact that Ted was responsible for fucking up a lot of Plath's poetry collections after her death, and the way Plath writes about their marriage is really interesting. She fucking adored Hughes, and she seemed to really love her role as a housewife - she's always baking cakes and throwing dinner parties, and at times it seems like she enjoyed being an author's wife more than being an author herself. She believed that Ted was the real talent, and seemed very happy to play second fiddle to him (so it's a delightful irony that Plath is now the more famous name, while Ted Hughes is known primarily as "Sylvia Plath's jealous husband"). As I said earlier, their relationship was complex. Plath freely acknowledges in her diaries that Ted is a surrogate father figure for her, and there's a section where she realizes Ted is cheating on her and is devastated.
Throughout the book, you can see Plath struggling with her own personal demons, and trying to push back at the depression and anxiety that eventually killed her. In a way, I appreciated how long this volume is, because it allows you to see that Sylvia Plath was more than just a writer who killed herself. She had good days and bad days, she was complicated, she was happy and sad and scared and angry, and she was alive.
"I must reject the grovelling image of the fearful beast in myself, which is an elaborate escape image, and face, force, days into line. I have an inner fight that won't be conquered by a motto or one night's resolution. My demon of negation will tempt me day by day, and I'll fight it, as something other than my essential self, which I am fighting to save: each day will have something to recommend it...Minute by minute to fight upward. Out from under that black cloud which would annihilate my whole being with its demand for perfection and measure, not of what I am, but of what I am not. I am what I am, and have written, lived, and travelled: I have been worth what I have won, but must work to be worth more. I shall not be more by wishful thinking."
October 12, 2007
There were moments reading this book that I had to put it down because the feelings are so vivid you feel like an intruder.
There are quotes from her journal that decribe in dark detail the feelings that I am sure many women feel as they are on their own for the first time, falling in love, broken hearted, scared of failure, married, alone...
Loved this book.
There are quotes from her journal that decribe in dark detail the feelings that I am sure many women feel as they are on their own for the first time, falling in love, broken hearted, scared of failure, married, alone...
Loved this book.
June 29, 2022
actual rating: 3.75 stars ⭐️
July 30, 2019
This is more interesting than any of her publications - fiction or non-fiction. Those who want to know more about Plath must read these journals.
September 4, 2020
wow, I guess I really took my time to finish this book. no, I mean... I reaAAAlly took my time – Goodreads is telling me I started reading it in April 2018, and have only managed to finish it in August 2020; and what a ride this has been!!
honestly, I can't deny my disappointment at realising how much of her journals has been lost, possibly forever (Ted Hughes claims to have destroyed the last volume, but then again, Sylvia also went through periods when she simply didn't keep a diary). reading her journals has been...exhausting, above all. I could only pick this up when feeling especially depressed, since her journals would get quite intense at times. However, most of all, Sylvia kept a diary as a writing exercise – this is why you'll have to go through hundreds of pages where nothing's really happening (but in a somewhat pretentious way and gorgeously written, still).
all in all, I'd say that it was worth spending 2 years intermittently picking up her journals for the few insightful, emotional entries describing her anxieties as an aspiring author, her relationship with Ted, her deepest insecurities and her battle with depression (which she eventually lost). and yeah, Sylvia totally made me want to start keeping a diary – if only I weren't so afraid that I'd unconsciously appropriate her voice, then defeating the whole purpose.
Saturday: July 19, 1958. Paralysis still with me. It is as if my mind stopped & let the phenomena of nature-shiny green rosebugs and orange toadstools & screaking woodpeckers – roll over me like a juggernaut – as if I had to plunge to the bottom of non-existence, of absolute fear, before I can rise again. My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing. Suddenly my life which always had clearly defined immediate & long-range objectives – a Smith scholarship, a Smith degree, a won poetry or story contest, a Fullbright, a Europe trip, a lover, a husband – has, or appears to have none. I dimly would like to write (or is it to have written?) a novel, short stories, a book of poems. And fearfully, dimly, would like to have a child: a bloodily breached twenty-year plan of purpose. Lines occur to me & stop dead: "The tiger lily's spotted throat". And then it is an echo of Eliot's "The tiger in the tiger pit", to the syllable & the consonance. I observe: "The mullberry berries redden under leaves". And stop. I think the worst thing is to exteriorize these jitterings & so will try to shut up & not blither to Ted. His sympathy is a constant temptation. I am made to be busy, gay, doing crazy jobs & writing this & that – stories & poems & nursing babies. How to catapult myself into this? When I stop, moving, other lives & single-track aims shoulder me into shadow. [...] Will this pass like a sickness? If I don't settle my trouble from within, no outside shower of fortune will make the grass grow. I feel under opiates, hashish – heavy with paralysis – all objects slipping from numb fingers, as in a bad dream.
b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l.
honestly, I can't deny my disappointment at realising how much of her journals has been lost, possibly forever (Ted Hughes claims to have destroyed the last volume, but then again, Sylvia also went through periods when she simply didn't keep a diary). reading her journals has been...exhausting, above all. I could only pick this up when feeling especially depressed, since her journals would get quite intense at times. However, most of all, Sylvia kept a diary as a writing exercise – this is why you'll have to go through hundreds of pages where nothing's really happening (but in a somewhat pretentious way and gorgeously written, still).
all in all, I'd say that it was worth spending 2 years intermittently picking up her journals for the few insightful, emotional entries describing her anxieties as an aspiring author, her relationship with Ted, her deepest insecurities and her battle with depression (which she eventually lost). and yeah, Sylvia totally made me want to start keeping a diary – if only I weren't so afraid that I'd unconsciously appropriate her voice, then defeating the whole purpose.
Saturday: July 19, 1958. Paralysis still with me. It is as if my mind stopped & let the phenomena of nature-shiny green rosebugs and orange toadstools & screaking woodpeckers – roll over me like a juggernaut – as if I had to plunge to the bottom of non-existence, of absolute fear, before I can rise again. My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing. Suddenly my life which always had clearly defined immediate & long-range objectives – a Smith scholarship, a Smith degree, a won poetry or story contest, a Fullbright, a Europe trip, a lover, a husband – has, or appears to have none. I dimly would like to write (or is it to have written?) a novel, short stories, a book of poems. And fearfully, dimly, would like to have a child: a bloodily breached twenty-year plan of purpose. Lines occur to me & stop dead: "The tiger lily's spotted throat". And then it is an echo of Eliot's "The tiger in the tiger pit", to the syllable & the consonance. I observe: "The mullberry berries redden under leaves". And stop. I think the worst thing is to exteriorize these jitterings & so will try to shut up & not blither to Ted. His sympathy is a constant temptation. I am made to be busy, gay, doing crazy jobs & writing this & that – stories & poems & nursing babies. How to catapult myself into this? When I stop, moving, other lives & single-track aims shoulder me into shadow. [...] Will this pass like a sickness? If I don't settle my trouble from within, no outside shower of fortune will make the grass grow. I feel under opiates, hashish – heavy with paralysis – all objects slipping from numb fingers, as in a bad dream.
b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l.
December 13, 2023
پاییز ۱۴۰۱
۲۴ساعته دارم با خودم کلنجار میرم که چطور برای کتابی ریویو بنویسم که واقعا ۳ ماه از مهم ترین و پیچیدهترین دوران زندگیمو باهام همراهی کرد و گاهی یادم میرفت که این دفترخاطرات دختریه که ۶۰ سال پیش زندگی میکرد،نه دفترخاطرات خودم.
انقدر احساسات و پیچیدگیهای ذهن خودم به تک به تک جملاتی که سیلویا نوشته عجین شده بود و شباهت داشت و همشون دقیقا با روندِ این ۳ ماهم پیش میرفت که تنها واکنشی که میتونستم دربرابرش داشته باشم بغل کردن کتاب و بوسیدن جلدش و قرار دادنش تو لیست مهم ترین کتاب های زندگیمه.فکر کنم این کتاب برام زیادی شخصی تر از اونی شد که بتونم به کسی معرفی یا توصیفش کنم.
و اگر میتونستم برگردم به اون زمان و به سیلویا چیزی بگم...
اینه که انقدر سخت نگیر.میدونم دختر،منم از اینکه یک روزم بی فایده بگذره متنفرم،منم از اینکه به تمام اون بُعدها و شخصیتهایی که میخوام تو زندگیم باشم نرسم میترسم.و قول میدم از پسش بربیام.ولی اون همه پیچیده کردنِ همه چیز به کجا ختم شد؟جون خودتو گرفتی.
کاش میدونستی پنجاه شصت سال دیگه هزاران هزار سیلویای دیگه دفترخاطراتت رو میخونن و مث سگ درکت میکنن.کاش میدونستی خاطراتت گنجینهی ادبی ارزشمند تری از شعرهات میشه.مطمئنم اینو ترجیح میدادی.چون عاشق شناخته شدن بودی.
بهت میگفتم انقدر حرص چاپ نشدن شعرهاتو نخور و به شوهرت حسودی نکن چون این تویی که الان شدی "سیلویا پلات".هرچند که خودتو خیلی زود از زندگی محروم کردی که این اسم و رسم رو ببینی.ولی شاید همون تورو خاص تر میکنه.شاید تو باید نمادِ "عاقبت اورثینک کردن و سخت گرفتن به خود" میشدی.شاید مرگت به زندگیت معنا داد در نهایت.همونطور که خودت همیشه بهش فکر میکردی.
تمام این دفتر پر شده از خط کشیهای زیاد زیاد و حاشیهنویسیهای دورتادور و انقدر زیادن که نمیتونم چنتارو انتخاب کنمو تو یه ریویو جا بدمشون.
من بخشی از خودم رو تو این کتاب گم کردم،جا گذاشتم،برداشتم،آروم کردم،معنا گرفتم،
پیدا کردم،کمکم کرد با احساسِ شباهت آروم بگیرم و از سخت ترین حالتهای پاییز امسال لذت ببرم.لذت بردن از مالیخولیا.لذت بردن از زن بودن،هورمون های دیوانهی پیچیدهی زنانگی،لذت بردن از بزرگتر بودن رویاهام از تواناییم و بیشتر بودنِ سلیقهام از تواناییم در نوشتن.
مرسی سیلویا.
برای نوشتن اینا،برای زندگی کردنت هرچند کم،برای پیچیده و در عین حال قابل درک بودنت برای بیشتر ز��های قدیم و امروز و آینده.
پنج پنجره درون این ۵۰۰ صفحه:
زن بودن
نویسنده بودن
میانگرا بودن(برونگرا+درونگرا)
کمالگرا و بزرگتر از دنیای اطرافت بودن
عاشق زندگی و تشنهی معنا دادن به زندگی...
اگر تو هرکدوم از اینا زیادی سختگیر بشید و بلد نباشید شنا کنید،غرق میشید(🙋🏼♀️)
۲۴ساعته دارم با خودم کلنجار میرم که چطور برای کتابی ریویو بنویسم که واقعا ۳ ماه از مهم ترین و پیچیدهترین دوران زندگیمو باهام همراهی کرد و گاهی یادم میرفت که این دفترخاطرات دختریه که ۶۰ سال پیش زندگی میکرد،نه دفترخاطرات خودم.
انقدر احساسات و پیچیدگیهای ذهن خودم به تک به تک جملاتی که سیلویا نوشته عجین شده بود و شباهت داشت و همشون دقیقا با روندِ این ۳ ماهم پیش میرفت که تنها واکنشی که میتونستم دربرابرش داشته باشم بغل کردن کتاب و بوسیدن جلدش و قرار دادنش تو لیست مهم ترین کتاب های زندگیمه.فکر کنم این کتاب برام زیادی شخصی تر از اونی شد که بتونم به کسی معرفی یا توصیفش کنم.
و اگر میتونستم برگردم به اون زمان و به سیلویا چیزی بگم...
اینه که انقدر سخت نگیر.میدونم دختر،منم از اینکه یک روزم بی فایده بگذره متنفرم،منم از اینکه به تمام اون بُعدها و شخصیتهایی که میخوام تو زندگیم باشم نرسم میترسم.و قول میدم از پسش بربیام.ولی اون همه پیچیده کردنِ همه چیز به کجا ختم شد؟جون خودتو گرفتی.
کاش میدونستی پنجاه شصت سال دیگه هزاران هزار سیلویای دیگه دفترخاطراتت رو میخونن و مث سگ درکت میکنن.کاش میدونستی خاطراتت گنجینهی ادبی ارزشمند تری از شعرهات میشه.مطمئنم اینو ترجیح میدادی.چون عاشق شناخته شدن بودی.
بهت میگفتم انقدر حرص چاپ نشدن شعرهاتو نخور و به شوهرت حسودی نکن چون این تویی که الان شدی "سیلویا پلات".هرچند که خودتو خیلی زود از زندگی محروم کردی که این اسم و رسم رو ببینی.ولی شاید همون تورو خاص تر میکنه.شاید تو باید نمادِ "عاقبت اورثینک کردن و سخت گرفتن به خود" میشدی.شاید مرگت به زندگیت معنا داد در نهایت.همونطور که خودت همیشه بهش فکر میکردی.
تمام این دفتر پر شده از خط کشیهای زیاد زیاد و حاشیهنویسیهای دورتادور و انقدر زیادن که نمیتونم چنتارو انتخاب کنمو تو یه ریویو جا بدمشون.
من بخشی از خودم رو تو این کتاب گم کردم،جا گذاشتم،برداشتم،آروم کردم،معنا گرفتم،
پیدا کردم،کمکم کرد با احساسِ شباهت آروم بگیرم و از سخت ترین حالتهای پاییز امسال لذت ببرم.لذت بردن از مالیخولیا.لذت بردن از زن بودن،هورمون های دیوانهی پیچیدهی زنانگی،لذت بردن از بزرگتر بودن رویاهام از تواناییم و بیشتر بودنِ سلیقهام از تواناییم در نوشتن.
مرسی سیلویا.
برای نوشتن اینا،برای زندگی کردنت هرچند کم،برای پیچیده و در عین حال قابل درک بودنت برای بیشتر ز��های قدیم و امروز و آینده.
پنج پنجره درون این ۵۰۰ صفحه:
زن بودن
نویسنده بودن
میانگرا بودن(برونگرا+درونگرا)
کمالگرا و بزرگتر از دنیای اطرافت بودن
عاشق زندگی و تشنهی معنا دادن به زندگی...
اگر تو هرکدوم از اینا زیادی سختگیر بشید و بلد نباشید شنا کنید،غرق میشید(🙋🏼♀️)
June 10, 2019
Above all — le mieux est l’ennemi du bien.
'Our garden and woods and fields which I had known so long, became suddenly new and beautiful to me. He was right in saying that the only certain happiness in life is to live for others. At the time his words seemed to me strange, and I did not understand them; but by degrees this became a conviction with me, without thinking about it. He revealed to me a whole new world of joys in the present, without changing anything in my life, without adding anything except himself to each impression in my mind. All that had surrounded me from childhood without saying anything to me, suddenly came to life. The mere sight of him made everything begin to speak and press for admittance to my heart, filling it with happiness.'
"Yes, my dear, it is little to give you,” he continued; “you have youth and beauty. I often lie awake at night from happiness, and all the time I think of our future life together. I have lived through much, and now I think I have found what is needed for happiness. A quiet secluded life in the country, with the possibility of being useful to people to whom it is easy to do good, and who are not accustomed to have it done to them; then work which one hopes may be of some use; then rest, nature, books, music, love for one’s neighbour — such is my idea of happiness. And then, on the top of all that, you for a mate, and children perhaps — what more can the heart of man desire?”
(***1/2 - review under construction)
'Our garden and woods and fields which I had known so long, became suddenly new and beautiful to me. He was right in saying that the only certain happiness in life is to live for others. At the time his words seemed to me strange, and I did not understand them; but by degrees this became a conviction with me, without thinking about it. He revealed to me a whole new world of joys in the present, without changing anything in my life, without adding anything except himself to each impression in my mind. All that had surrounded me from childhood without saying anything to me, suddenly came to life. The mere sight of him made everything begin to speak and press for admittance to my heart, filling it with happiness.'
"Yes, my dear, it is little to give you,” he continued; “you have youth and beauty. I often lie awake at night from happiness, and all the time I think of our future life together. I have lived through much, and now I think I have found what is needed for happiness. A quiet secluded life in the country, with the possibility of being useful to people to whom it is easy to do good, and who are not accustomed to have it done to them; then work which one hopes may be of some use; then rest, nature, books, music, love for one’s neighbour — such is my idea of happiness. And then, on the top of all that, you for a mate, and children perhaps — what more can the heart of man desire?”
(***1/2 - review under construction)
November 29, 2017
This should be at the top of everybody's reading list...
April 2, 2009
It's astounding how much I relate to Sylvia in these journals. I think all feminine beings need to read this. Her entries are honest and raw: revealing her sensitivities, obsessions, routines, insecurities...
More intimate than any of her poetry books, Plath's journals offer greater insight into both her personal and literary struggles.
This book is of great value to me: and I'm sure I will continue referring to it for many years.
More intimate than any of her poetry books, Plath's journals offer greater insight into both her personal and literary struggles.
This book is of great value to me: and I'm sure I will continue referring to it for many years.
May 10, 2024
بعد اسبوعيين تقريبا انتهيت من اليوميات لم الاحظ انى استغرقت هذه المدة الا بعد تعليق الصديقة Heba Nour
التى اشكرها لانها نبهتنى لانى اعدت التفكير فى اليوميات وقراءة مانقلته منها . فأنا احيانا استغرق هذه المدة او اكثر فى قراءة كتاب وعادة اشعر بطول المدة وانى استغرقت الكثير لكن مع هذا الكتاب ورغم وجود بعض الاجزاء المملة الا انى لم اشعر بالوقت .
لم اكن اعرف سيلفيا بلاث لكن عثرت بالصدفة على هذا الكتاب الخاص بيومياتها فبحثت عنها من باب الفضول لأعرف انها شاعرة وكاتبة امريكية لكن ذلك لم يكن السبب انى قرأت الكتاب فالكتاب ليس بالصغير لكن معرفتى بانها كانت تعانى من الاكتئاب لاأغلب حياتها وانها انتحرت فى سن صغير حيث ماتت أثار التسمم بأول أكسيد الكربون بعد أن حشرت رأسها في الفرن. وضعت مناشف مبللة تحت الأبواب لتكون حاجزا بين المطبخ وبين غرف أطفالها. وضعت رأسها في الفرن الذي كان قيد التشغيل. كان عمرها ثلاثين سنة.جعلنى ارغب فى قراءة اليوميات لااتعرف بشكل اكبر عن حياتها ومعاناتها مع الاكتئاب فانا شخصيا انجذب لقراءة كل مايتعلق بالاكتئاب
هناك جزء افتقدته فى يومياتها وهى يوميات مابعد طلاقها وقبل انتحارها
اليوميات كانت فى بعض الاجزاء مملة بعض الشىء خاصة انها تتحدث عن مقابلاتها او محاداثتها مع اشخاص والجزء الاخير صراحة تعديته فهو عن وصف لجيرانها وحياتهم لم اشعر بالاهتمام لذلك
هناك اجزاء من يومياتها شعرت انى لو كنت اجيد لكتابة لكانت كلماتها نسخة بالضبط مما اكتبه لذلك فتأثرى به كان شخصى جدا . فهناك اجزاء من حديثها عن شعورها ومعاناتها قريب منى لدرجة مخيفة . وربما لهذه الاجزاء كنت اكمل قراءة اليوميات .
حياتها ومراهقتها وعلاقتها وحبها وحزنها .
رغبتها بالكتابة شديدة جدا وكانت مهمة جدا بالنسبة لها لكنها كانت تعانى من رفض الكثير من اعمالها وكان ذلك صادم لها جدا . قرائتها واراءها .وظائفها وتاثير كل وظيفة عملت بها عليها .
رفضها لان تفقد نفسها فى حال زواجها
" لو سالونى اى دور اخطط للقيام به سأقول ماذا تعنى بكلمة دور ؟ لست عازمة على القيام بدور فى حال تزوجت لكنى سوف اواصل العيش ككائن بشرى عاقل طبيعى اظل انمو واتعلم كما فعلت دزما لاتحول لاتغير جّذرى فى عادات حياتى "
" الهذا يتهمنى بالهيمنة ؟ بالصراع من اجل الهيمنة ؟؟ اسفة الرقم غلط بالطبع انا خائفة من ان يهيمن على ومن لايكون كذلك فقط ذلك الفرد من ال��وع المطيع سهل الانقياد الجبان . لكن هذا لايعنى اننى بحكم الطبيعة اريد ان اهيمن ..... انه التوازن الذي اطلبه لا التابعية المستمرة لرغبات واهتمامات شخص واحد"
كانت دوما تحاول ان تشجع نفسها وتكتب لنفسها ماذا يجب ان تفعل وان لاتتذمر لزوجها وتشكو له حتى لايحزن . اعجبنى حوارها مع نفسها وتشجيعها لنفسها
حزنها ويأسها احيانا وتشجيعها وثقتها فى كتاباتها تارة اخرى
حديثها عن كرهها وغضبها من والدتها
حديثها عن زوجها وعلاقتها بها
ورغبتها الشديدة فى ان تكون أم وحزنها لعدم حملها وفقدانها للجنين وحزنها قبل ان تنجب
تحدثت بتفاصيل عن ولادتها الثانية " نيكولاس "فشعرت انى معها فى الغرفة واتالم معها
"الحياة هى وحدة برغم كل المود المخدرة برغم المرح المبهرج الصاخب الحفلات التى بلاجدوى برغم الوجوه المبتسمة الزائفة التى نرتديها جميعا وعندما تجد فى النهاية احدا تشعر معه انك تستطيع ان تثبت لواعج نفسك تتوقف فى الحال مذعورا من كلماتك هى صدئة جدا قبيحة جدا تافهة جدا وواهنة لانها بقيت زمنا طويلا حبيسة فى الظلام الخانق لداخلك اجل يوجد فرح ارتياح عشرة .لكن وحدة الروح فى وعيها الفظيع بذاتها هى رهيبة وطاغية "
" لدى الخيار فى ان اكون فعالة وسعيدة بشكل دائم او سلبية وحزينة او يمكننى ان اجن بالشرود بين الاثنين "
"انا خائفة لست صلبة بل جوفاء . خلف عينى اشعر بحفرة كامدة متبلدة بفراغ من جحيم بعدم متصنع . لم افكر ابدا لم اكتب ابدا لم اعان ابدا اريد قتل نفسى الهرب من المسئولية . الزحف عائدة بذل الى الرحم "
"الحب ووهم لكنى ساقع فيه لكل حب لو استطعت ان اؤمن به "
لقد كتبت الكثير من كلامها وعندما قراته الان ثانية شعرت برغبة فى إعادة قراءة يومياتها لكنى اتطلع لقراءة رواية الناقوس الزجاجى لها
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التى اشكرها لانها نبهتنى لانى اعدت التفكير فى اليوميات وقراءة مانقلته منها . فأنا احيانا استغرق هذه المدة او اكثر فى قراءة كتاب وعادة اشعر بطول المدة وانى استغرقت الكثير لكن مع هذا الكتاب ورغم وجود بعض الاجزاء المملة الا انى لم اشعر بالوقت .
لم اكن اعرف سيلفيا بلاث لكن عثرت بالصدفة على هذا الكتاب الخاص بيومياتها فبحثت عنها من باب الفضول لأعرف انها شاعرة وكاتبة امريكية لكن ذلك لم يكن السبب انى قرأت الكتاب فالكتاب ليس بالصغير لكن معرفتى بانها كانت تعانى من الاكتئاب لاأغلب حياتها وانها انتحرت فى سن صغير حيث ماتت أثار التسمم بأول أكسيد الكربون بعد أن حشرت رأسها في الفرن. وضعت مناشف مبللة تحت الأبواب لتكون حاجزا بين المطبخ وبين غرف أطفالها. وضعت رأسها في الفرن الذي كان قيد التشغيل. كان عمرها ثلاثين سنة.جعلنى ارغب فى قراءة اليوميات لااتعرف بشكل اكبر عن حياتها ومعاناتها مع الاكتئاب فانا شخصيا انجذب لقراءة كل مايتعلق بالاكتئاب
هناك جزء افتقدته فى يومياتها وهى يوميات مابعد طلاقها وقبل انتحارها
اليوميات كانت فى بعض الاجزاء مملة بعض الشىء خاصة انها تتحدث عن مقابلاتها او محاداثتها مع اشخاص والجزء الاخير صراحة تعديته فهو عن وصف لجيرانها وحياتهم لم اشعر بالاهتمام لذلك
هناك اجزاء من يومياتها شعرت انى لو كنت اجيد لكتابة لكانت كلماتها نسخة بالضبط مما اكتبه لذلك فتأثرى به كان شخصى جدا . فهناك اجزاء من حديثها عن شعورها ومعاناتها قريب منى لدرجة مخيفة . وربما لهذه الاجزاء كنت اكمل قراءة اليوميات .
حياتها ومراهقتها وعلاقتها وحبها وحزنها .
رغبتها بالكتابة شديدة جدا وكانت مهمة جدا بالنسبة لها لكنها كانت تعانى من رفض الكثير من اعمالها وكان ذلك صادم لها جدا . قرائتها واراءها .وظائفها وتاثير كل وظيفة عملت بها عليها .
رفضها لان تفقد نفسها فى حال زواجها
" لو سالونى اى دور اخطط للقيام به سأقول ماذا تعنى بكلمة دور ؟ لست عازمة على القيام بدور فى حال تزوجت لكنى سوف اواصل العيش ككائن بشرى عاقل طبيعى اظل انمو واتعلم كما فعلت دزما لاتحول لاتغير جّذرى فى عادات حياتى "
" الهذا يتهمنى بالهيمنة ؟ بالصراع من اجل الهيمنة ؟؟ اسفة الرقم غلط بالطبع انا خائفة من ان يهيمن على ومن لايكون كذلك فقط ذلك الفرد من ال��وع المطيع سهل الانقياد الجبان . لكن هذا لايعنى اننى بحكم الطبيعة اريد ان اهيمن ..... انه التوازن الذي اطلبه لا التابعية المستمرة لرغبات واهتمامات شخص واحد"
كانت دوما تحاول ان تشجع نفسها وتكتب لنفسها ماذا يجب ان تفعل وان لاتتذمر لزوجها وتشكو له حتى لايحزن . اعجبنى حوارها مع نفسها وتشجيعها لنفسها
حزنها ويأسها احيانا وتشجيعها وثقتها فى كتاباتها تارة اخرى
حديثها عن كرهها وغضبها من والدتها
حديثها عن زوجها وعلاقتها بها
ورغبتها الشديدة فى ان تكون أم وحزنها لعدم حملها وفقدانها للجنين وحزنها قبل ان تنجب
تحدثت بتفاصيل عن ولادتها الثانية " نيكولاس "فشعرت انى معها فى الغرفة واتالم معها
"الحياة هى وحدة برغم كل المود المخدرة برغم المرح المبهرج الصاخب الحفلات التى بلاجدوى برغم الوجوه المبتسمة الزائفة التى نرتديها جميعا وعندما تجد فى النهاية احدا تشعر معه انك تستطيع ان تثبت لواعج نفسك تتوقف فى الحال مذعورا من كلماتك هى صدئة جدا قبيحة جدا تافهة جدا وواهنة لانها بقيت زمنا طويلا حبيسة فى الظلام الخانق لداخلك اجل يوجد فرح ارتياح عشرة .لكن وحدة الروح فى وعيها الفظيع بذاتها هى رهيبة وطاغية "
" لدى الخيار فى ان اكون فعالة وسعيدة بشكل دائم او سلبية وحزينة او يمكننى ان اجن بالشرود بين الاثنين "
"انا خائفة لست صلبة بل جوفاء . خلف عينى اشعر بحفرة كامدة متبلدة بفراغ من جحيم بعدم متصنع . لم افكر ابدا لم اكتب ابدا لم اعان ابدا اريد قتل نفسى الهرب من المسئولية . الزحف عائدة بذل الى الرحم "
"الحب ووهم لكنى ساقع فيه لكل حب لو استطعت ان اؤمن به "
لقد كتبت الكثير من كلامها وعندما قراته الان ثانية شعرت برغبة فى إعادة قراءة يومياتها لكنى اتطلع لقراءة رواية الناقوس الزجاجى لها
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August 3, 2019
عنوان ترجمه فارسی این کتاب سعادت زناشوییه.
من بسیار به ادبیات روسیه علاقمندم. این داستان هم مثل همه کارهای تولستوی عالی بود . از ازدواجهایی نوشته که با عشق زیاد شروع میشه و زوج بعد چند سال فکر میکنند روزمرگی زندگی عشق آنها را کمرنگ کرده. بسیار زیبا نوشته که این فکر غلطه و تعبیر بهترش اینه که عشق به رفاقتی عجیب تبدیل میشه که این باعث ادامه ازدواج میشه. پیامش اینه که آن عشق سوزان قبل از ازدواج قرار نیست تا ابد بمونه و زوج باید از رفاقت و احترام بعدش لذت ببرند
من بسیار به ادبیات روسیه علاقمندم. این داستان هم مثل همه کارهای تولستوی عالی بود . از ازدواجهایی نوشته که با عشق زیاد شروع میشه و زوج بعد چند سال فکر میکنند روزمرگی زندگی عشق آنها را کمرنگ کرده. بسیار زیبا نوشته که این فکر غلطه و تعبیر بهترش اینه که عشق به رفاقتی عجیب تبدیل میشه که این باعث ادامه ازدواج میشه. پیامش اینه که آن عشق سوزان قبل از ازدواج قرار نیست تا ابد بمونه و زوج باید از رفاقت و احترام بعدش لذت ببرند
November 30, 2020
It is true that that the facts of her death are what finally propelled Sylvia Plath into literary eminence—she published little during her lifetime and was largely unknown outside of poetic circles. It is also true that her own fascination with psychoanalysis, alongside a tumultuous relationship with husband and would-be Poet Laureate Ted Hughes, marks her as a subject of much intrigue. However, I find it perverse how she is seen primarily through her tragedy; her person interchangeable with a sense of macabre victimhood. I love Plath, but it is her life that I'm drawn to rather than her death.
My admiration for Plath and her oeuvre is therefore often accompanied by a sense of unease, given the degree to which her life and works are obscured by her oft-mythologised struggle with mental illness and eventual suicide. Reading her has time and again led me to see her a kindred soul, to believe that I can commune with her and that she gets me—although I am but one among the millions of women who feel the same. What is that if not the mark of a superior writer?
The journal entries included in this volume are dated as early as July 1950, when Plath is an eighteen year old just about to begin college, and reveal a refined style and outlook that seems way ahead of her time. An all-American girl on the surface, she craves both independence and sexual freedom, and has ambitious in an age when success for women was defined as being wives and mothers. Thus, although often preoccupied with dating and husband-hunting she is calculating in romance, knowing the precarity of women in the 1950s. Unable to see herself in the hallowed image of a domestic subservient, she wants equality; she negotiates her femininity vis-a-vis the 'masculinity' of her aspirations and often mentions her envy for the ease of male living.
Her conception of her own femininity and wholeness sees a subtle shift in later years, post her affair with Richard Sassoon and her marrying Ted Hughes, but she continues to assert her talents while balancing her role as a wife. Plath's veritable adoration for Hughes soaks through much of her writing in the later half, and it is perhaps because of her finally having the kind of companionship she craves that her entries in this period shift from being exercises in expression to concerned mostly with description. Even so, there remains in her a loneliness that she can not share, one she often ascribes to her inability to tap her talents to the fullest.
In these later entries we see Plath pushing herself to write and publish, describing in earnest the cycle of rejections and acceptances and what it's like to earn a living through letters, giving a sense of her competitiveness with contemporaries like Adrienne Rich and Anne Sexton, and, not least, her experiences with therapy and coming face-to-face with her personal issues and familial demons. There is too a sense of Plath boxing herself into her role as a wife and internalising a sense of lack, often seeking to synthesise the creative energy of the womb with that emanating from her pen.
Of course, as with all journals, Plath's can only be read through the gaps between them. It is true that people most often write journal entries as a form of cathartic release when they're upset, and Plath says as much herself. Thus, to see her entries as a wholly accurate picture of her temperament would be rather misleading.
An additional problem is posed by the fact that insight on crucial moments in her life—such as the birth of her children, her separation from Hughes, and her final days—is often missing due to the fact that Plath simply did not keep a journal during some periods (such as during her senior year of college), and that at least two of her journals have gone missing or been destroyed by Hughes. Moreover, given the control he exercised over Plath's work after her death, it would not be entirely unfounded to suspect Hughes of tampering even with those journals which he released for publication.
Nevertheless, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath is indeed a valuable volume for those who have been moved and fascinated by the legend of Plath. While it does not provide one with the complete picture of her mind, it privileges readers a glimpse into the blazing talents and meticulous sensibilities of one of the most dynamic and acclaimed literary figures of the 20th century.
My admiration for Plath and her oeuvre is therefore often accompanied by a sense of unease, given the degree to which her life and works are obscured by her oft-mythologised struggle with mental illness and eventual suicide. Reading her has time and again led me to see her a kindred soul, to believe that I can commune with her and that she gets me—although I am but one among the millions of women who feel the same. What is that if not the mark of a superior writer?
In her journals, Plath is vivacious, multidimensional, and intensely human, passionately recording her life and observations lest they slip away, coaxing herself to write more and do more and be more. Hers is an obsession with living, with creativity and success, and it is this that makes her such an irresistible figure.Sylvia Plath photographed with typewriter in Yorkshire, September 1956
The journal entries included in this volume are dated as early as July 1950, when Plath is an eighteen year old just about to begin college, and reveal a refined style and outlook that seems way ahead of her time. An all-American girl on the surface, she craves both independence and sexual freedom, and has ambitious in an age when success for women was defined as being wives and mothers. Thus, although often preoccupied with dating and husband-hunting she is calculating in romance, knowing the precarity of women in the 1950s. Unable to see herself in the hallowed image of a domestic subservient, she wants equality; she negotiates her femininity vis-a-vis the 'masculinity' of her aspirations and often mentions her envy for the ease of male living.
Her conception of her own femininity and wholeness sees a subtle shift in later years, post her affair with Richard Sassoon and her marrying Ted Hughes, but she continues to assert her talents while balancing her role as a wife. Plath's veritable adoration for Hughes soaks through much of her writing in the later half, and it is perhaps because of her finally having the kind of companionship she craves that her entries in this period shift from being exercises in expression to concerned mostly with description. Even so, there remains in her a loneliness that she can not share, one she often ascribes to her inability to tap her talents to the fullest.
In these later entries we see Plath pushing herself to write and publish, describing in earnest the cycle of rejections and acceptances and what it's like to earn a living through letters, giving a sense of her competitiveness with contemporaries like Adrienne Rich and Anne Sexton, and, not least, her experiences with therapy and coming face-to-face with her personal issues and familial demons. There is too a sense of Plath boxing herself into her role as a wife and internalising a sense of lack, often seeking to synthesise the creative energy of the womb with that emanating from her pen.
It is difficult to read these journals in one go—as private documentation of the poet's life, they exert a sense of guilt and voyeurism on the reader. At the same time, Plath's writing here is not always raw but artistic and coolly analytical, often veering into the territory of writing practice, where she records details and observations to enliven future efforts at composition. Often, these journals read like a variation of the confessional poetry she became best known for, blurring the line between the poet and the person considerably in some places while reasserting it in others.Sylvia Plath photographed by Ted Hughes, 1960
Of course, as with all journals, Plath's can only be read through the gaps between them. It is true that people most often write journal entries as a form of cathartic release when they're upset, and Plath says as much herself. Thus, to see her entries as a wholly accurate picture of her temperament would be rather misleading.
An additional problem is posed by the fact that insight on crucial moments in her life—such as the birth of her children, her separation from Hughes, and her final days—is often missing due to the fact that Plath simply did not keep a journal during some periods (such as during her senior year of college), and that at least two of her journals have gone missing or been destroyed by Hughes. Moreover, given the control he exercised over Plath's work after her death, it would not be entirely unfounded to suspect Hughes of tampering even with those journals which he released for publication.
Nevertheless, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath is indeed a valuable volume for those who have been moved and fascinated by the legend of Plath. While it does not provide one with the complete picture of her mind, it privileges readers a glimpse into the blazing talents and meticulous sensibilities of one of the most dynamic and acclaimed literary figures of the 20th century.
Shelved as 'dnf'
March 6, 2016I will not rate this book.
It's too hard for me to finish reading. I feel like I'm intruding. I love memoirs, but this is not one. This is a collection of raw feelings/thoughts. Would Sylvia Plath have published her diaries, had she survived? Would she have changed them before publication?
It's too hard for me to finish reading. I feel like I'm intruding. I love memoirs, but this is not one. This is a collection of raw feelings/thoughts. Would Sylvia Plath have published her diaries, had she survived? Would she have changed them before publication?
June 12, 2020
بسيطة وعميقة في الآن نفسه، وصادقة، ولغتها إشاريّة، وتُعطي ربما أسبابًا لانتحارها في النهاية؛ الضياع، وفقدان الذات، وعذاب النفس في رحلة البحث عن الطموح البعيد، كما قال المتنبي:
لحا الله ذي الدنيا مُناخًا لراكبٍ
فكُلّ بعيد الهمّ فيها مُعذّبُ
لحا الله ذي الدنيا مُناخًا لراكبٍ
فكُلّ بعيد الهمّ فيها مُعذّبُ
August 14, 2018
مذكراتها جعلتني أشعر أنني صديقة مقربة لها. عظيمة.
March 13, 2020
my first ever encounter with Sylvia Plath was with her poem 'Daddy' -
// bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue. //
I couldn't understand at that time why I was able to connect with her, but some time later when I was in my own labyrinth I was able to comprehend the attachment I formed with her. In some really severe hopeless moments, I found solace in the words of the person who, like everyone around us, was thrown into the real world with a really brute force. But unlike everyone else, it took her, and to some extent, me, years to find a stable ground. When everyone around was growing with a pace that seemed unattainable to me, there I was - with Sylvia, stuck in a world where we were convinced that the only way to live was by being hard on ourselves. She taught me how to reflect on myself and my thoughts, and slowly I found myself getting out of the bell jar.
I don't know if I found her or if she found me, all I know is that we have always belonged together. They say that you're an amalgamation of all the books you read, but of all the authors I've ever read she's the one I feel the most myself with.
she died when she was 30. She committed suicide by suffocating herself to death. She couldn't find her own ability to stand up, but she helped me find mine.
a book that I revisit every year.
// bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue. //
I couldn't understand at that time why I was able to connect with her, but some time later when I was in my own labyrinth I was able to comprehend the attachment I formed with her. In some really severe hopeless moments, I found solace in the words of the person who, like everyone around us, was thrown into the real world with a really brute force. But unlike everyone else, it took her, and to some extent, me, years to find a stable ground. When everyone around was growing with a pace that seemed unattainable to me, there I was - with Sylvia, stuck in a world where we were convinced that the only way to live was by being hard on ourselves. She taught me how to reflect on myself and my thoughts, and slowly I found myself getting out of the bell jar.
I don't know if I found her or if she found me, all I know is that we have always belonged together. They say that you're an amalgamation of all the books you read, but of all the authors I've ever read she's the one I feel the most myself with.
she died when she was 30. She committed suicide by suffocating herself to death. She couldn't find her own ability to stand up, but she helped me find mine.
a book that I revisit every year.
February 7, 2017
اين كتاب كادوى تولد نه سال پيشم بود
و امسال خوندمش
ترجمه عالى كتاب تحسين برانگيزه
اما حذف هاى زياد خواننده رو اذيت ميكنه
البته افسردگى پلات هم خوندن كتابو سخت ميكنه ولى اينكه اين همه سال خاطره نوشته و وقتى خاطراتشو ميخونى انقد بهش احساس نزديكى ميكنى انگار كه زندگى خودته خيلى قشنگه
و امسال خوندمش
ترجمه عالى كتاب تحسين برانگيزه
اما حذف هاى زياد خواننده رو اذيت ميكنه
البته افسردگى پلات هم خوندن كتابو سخت ميكنه ولى اينكه اين همه سال خاطره نوشته و وقتى خاطراتشو ميخونى انقد بهش احساس نزديكى ميكنى انگار كه زندگى خودته خيلى قشنگه
May 30, 2021
Tolstoy, I believe, came to me at just the right point of my life - a year which has been, by far, the most turbulent one in my entire life. After reading War & Peace earlier this year, I was convinced that there is no better guidebook to 'better living' than Tolstoy's words. He, seemingly, has advise for everything under the sun.
Family Happiness begins at a lonely country house somewhere in Russia. We meet our protagonist, the seventeen year old Masha, just after her mother's death living a secluded life with her younger sister and governess. We follow Masha's story through 2 crucial periods of her life,both of which lead to an awakening of sorts or a sort of maturity. She is what you can imagine any teenager to be - longing for stimulation and city life, repressed by the isolation of the country. Yet this changes as she meets her late father's friend, the middle aged Sergey Mikhaylych, which is the first crucial period. Sergey's presence and company changes her teenage daydreams dramatically - her dreams change from one of want of stimulation to those of a desire for quiet domesticity and a life that's more giving. As they get married, the initial months are blissful ones. That changes as she slowly tires of the quiet country living that she she had so desired. That's when we see her enter the second crucial stage of her life - the one where her marriage begins to fail, and the love which had seemed so strong and ideal seems to fade.
From what I have read of Tolstoy, there seems to be some common themes running through his novels. One of those themes seem to be a search for happiness. What is happiness to Masha? At first, happiness for her is Sergey alone. Then, as she encounters the society at St. Petersburg and experiences the flattery, fame and the stimulation that it offers, that becomes happiness to her. Finally, when she leaves society behind, disillusioned and with a failed marriage, she finds herself miserable as she tries to regain back the former marital happiness to no avail.
Tolstoy suggests that there's no point in pining away for or attempting to resurrect what can't be brought back, but to instead find newer avenues of happiness. Things change and so do people. Once gone, these cannot revert back to the former state. So, there's no point in mourning for a past that won't come back.
At the same time, he seems to stress on how momentary joys are not real and are mere illusions.
It's interesting - this whole notion of evolving happiness, for it's human tendency to mourn for what will not come back, reminisce about what seems like the spotlessly beautiful past in hindsight. Either one can spend one's life being miserable about what is lost or one can make an effort to move forward into the future. The choice, in the end, is what decides happiness.
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Literarianism
Family Happiness begins at a lonely country house somewhere in Russia. We meet our protagonist, the seventeen year old Masha, just after her mother's death living a secluded life with her younger sister and governess. We follow Masha's story through 2 crucial periods of her life,both of which lead to an awakening of sorts or a sort of maturity. She is what you can imagine any teenager to be - longing for stimulation and city life, repressed by the isolation of the country. Yet this changes as she meets her late father's friend, the middle aged Sergey Mikhaylych, which is the first crucial period. Sergey's presence and company changes her teenage daydreams dramatically - her dreams change from one of want of stimulation to those of a desire for quiet domesticity and a life that's more giving. As they get married, the initial months are blissful ones. That changes as she slowly tires of the quiet country living that she she had so desired. That's when we see her enter the second crucial stage of her life - the one where her marriage begins to fail, and the love which had seemed so strong and ideal seems to fade.
From what I have read of Tolstoy, there seems to be some common themes running through his novels. One of those themes seem to be a search for happiness. What is happiness to Masha? At first, happiness for her is Sergey alone. Then, as she encounters the society at St. Petersburg and experiences the flattery, fame and the stimulation that it offers, that becomes happiness to her. Finally, when she leaves society behind, disillusioned and with a failed marriage, she finds herself miserable as she tries to regain back the former marital happiness to no avail.
Tolstoy suggests that there's no point in pining away for or attempting to resurrect what can't be brought back, but to instead find newer avenues of happiness. Things change and so do people. Once gone, these cannot revert back to the former state. So, there's no point in mourning for a past that won't come back.
At the same time, he seems to stress on how momentary joys are not real and are mere illusions.
It's interesting - this whole notion of evolving happiness, for it's human tendency to mourn for what will not come back, reminisce about what seems like the spotlessly beautiful past in hindsight. Either one can spend one's life being miserable about what is lost or one can make an effort to move forward into the future. The choice, in the end, is what decides happiness.
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Literarianism
November 1, 2017
اندوه و افسردگی در سفیدی میان خطوط، کلمهها و تاریخهای این کتاب رخنه کردهاند. از اولین یادداشتی که سیلویا پلات در ژوئیهی ۱۹۵۰ نوشته تا کمی قبل از خودکشیاش در ۱۹۶۳ چیزی شبیه یک افسردگی کشنده و ناتمام جریان دارد، مثل آبی گلآلود که اول آ��ام و راکد است اما بعد نیرو میگیرد و به سیلی ویرانکننده تبدیل میشود. سیلویا پلات بیواسطه و بدون تغییر نهچندان فاحشی همان دخترکی است که در حباب شیشه، خواننده را تا مرزی از سقوط در ظلمات میبرد پس نمیتوان در قلمرویی که خودش را عریان و عاری از هر نقابی نشان میدهد، انتظار افسردگی و نفرت و سیاهی را نداشت.
نوشتن احتمالاً شبیه بیماری است. یک رنج پیوسته و برای تاب آوردن این بیماری باید مرهمی وجود داشته باشد. یک تسکین. برای سیلویا پلات این تسکین چاپ شدن داستان/ شعرهایش در نشریات معتبر آن سالهاست و چرا او که مدام میان اینکه چقدر خوب مینویسد یا اصلاً چرا م��نویسد؟ در جنگ است به اندازه کافی مورد توجه نبوده؟ این حالات ناخوشی، طرد کردن نوشتن و میل برای فرار از کلمهها و تبدیل شدن به یک آدم معمولی که کار کارمندی میکند و نوشتن برایش باری به هر جهت است، لذتهایش بیمایه و دغدغههایش مسخره... گاه و بیگاه او را به فکر میاندازد که همهچیز را کنار بگذارد اما این راهحل نه قطعی است و نه آرامبخش.
باران ریز سرد افسردگی روی سرم، وقتی که حتی فکر نوشتن قصهای به سرم میزند.
هیچچیزی سیلویا پلات را نجات نمیدهد. نه همسرش که در انتهای زندگی زناشویی به او خیانت میکند اما آدمی است که معنای جنگهای درونی را میفهمد و نه دکترش که سعی میکند ریشههای نفرتش را پیدا کند. نه مادرش که ارتباطش با او عجیبوغریب است... چیزی در درون او هست، چیزی که خودکشی را، نابودی خود را برایش اجتنابناپذیر میکند. چیزی شبیه یک حفرهای سیاه، قیرمانند، یخزده.
خوشحال بودم که جز نویسنده شدن کار دیگری از دستم برنمیآید ولی حالا نویسنده هم نیستم. حتی یک جمله هم نمیتوانستم بنویسم: ترس و جنون مرگبار مرا از پا انداخته.
دنیا باید خیلی وحشتناک باشد، وقتی دیگرانند که تعیین میکنند تو که هستی؟ نویسندهای یا نه. استعداد داری یا نه. نوشتهات به دردبخور هست یا نه؟ لایق زندگی هستی یا نه؟ دنیا اغلب اوقات وحشتناک است.
نوشتن احتمالاً شبیه بیماری است. یک رنج پیوسته و برای تاب آوردن این بیماری باید مرهمی وجود داشته باشد. یک تسکین. برای سیلویا پلات این تسکین چاپ شدن داستان/ شعرهایش در نشریات معتبر آن سالهاست و چرا او که مدام میان اینکه چقدر خوب مینویسد یا اصلاً چرا م��نویسد؟ در جنگ است به اندازه کافی مورد توجه نبوده؟ این حالات ناخوشی، طرد کردن نوشتن و میل برای فرار از کلمهها و تبدیل شدن به یک آدم معمولی که کار کارمندی میکند و نوشتن برایش باری به هر جهت است، لذتهایش بیمایه و دغدغههایش مسخره... گاه و بیگاه او را به فکر میاندازد که همهچیز را کنار بگذارد اما این راهحل نه قطعی است و نه آرامبخش.
باران ریز سرد افسردگی روی سرم، وقتی که حتی فکر نوشتن قصهای به سرم میزند.
هیچچیزی سیلویا پلات را نجات نمیدهد. نه همسرش که در انتهای زندگی زناشویی به او خیانت میکند اما آدمی است که معنای جنگهای درونی را میفهمد و نه دکترش که سعی میکند ریشههای نفرتش را پیدا کند. نه مادرش که ارتباطش با او عجیبوغریب است... چیزی در درون او هست، چیزی که خودکشی را، نابودی خود را برایش اجتنابناپذیر میکند. چیزی شبیه یک حفرهای سیاه، قیرمانند، یخزده.
خوشحال بودم که جز نویسنده شدن کار دیگری از دستم برنمیآید ولی حالا نویسنده هم نیستم. حتی یک جمله هم نمیتوانستم بنویسم: ترس و جنون مرگبار مرا از پا انداخته.
دنیا باید خیلی وحشتناک باشد، وقتی دیگرانند که تعیین میکنند تو که هستی؟ نویسندهای یا نه. استعداد داری یا نه. نوشتهات به دردبخور هست یا نه؟ لایق زندگی هستی یا نه؟ دنیا اغلب اوقات وحشتناک است.
November 19, 2011
This is the book that introduced me to Sylvia Plath. Her poetry and 'The Bell Jar' would follow. I came to appreciate her love for just writing. She can make the most mundane interesting. To truly have a complete picture of Sylvia Plath, 'The Journals' are integral. One of my great thrills was to visit Smith College, and meet Karen Kukil and actually pick up and read the actual journals. In the Mortimer rare book room, I was also able to see the drafts of her poems written on the pink Smith College stationary. To read the Journals for me was to get closer to the real Sylvia Plath, and away from the sensationalized version. Highly recommended for anyone interested in Sylvia Plath.
July 8, 2023
“I don’t believe in God as a kind father in the sky. I don’t believe that the meek will inherit the earth. The meek get ignored and trampled. They decompose in the bloody soil of war, of business, of art, and they rot into the warm ground under the spring rains.”
An unabridged collection of Sylvia Plath’s personal journals. Even at 700+ pages this 6 pound doorstop of a book still has waning gaps of missing time—missing because her journaling was inconsistent, missing because of her hospitalization after a failed suicide attempt (1953), missing because Ted Hughes “lost” at least one journal, missing because Ted Hughes burned her final journal. The editors have done their absolute best to bridge the holes with letters (when available), journal “fragments,” footnotes and a rather extensive appendix. Still, it would be to the reader’s benefit to have a bit of background knowledge about Plath’s life history before tackling this behemoth.
I’m struck by the extent of Sylvia’s crippling codependency with Hughes. There is a distinct change in the tone of her writing once the handsome and talented T.H. enters her sphere of existence. Her focus becomes noticeably less about bettering herself as a poet and a writer and noticeably more about managing and furthering Ted’s career. I’m not suggesting he would have floundered without her, I’m just saying that… well… even though Plath rarely disparages his character, he still comes off looking like a complete asshole.
An unabridged collection of Sylvia Plath’s personal journals. Even at 700+ pages this 6 pound doorstop of a book still has waning gaps of missing time—missing because her journaling was inconsistent, missing because of her hospitalization after a failed suicide attempt (1953), missing because Ted Hughes “lost” at least one journal, missing because Ted Hughes burned her final journal. The editors have done their absolute best to bridge the holes with letters (when available), journal “fragments,” footnotes and a rather extensive appendix. Still, it would be to the reader’s benefit to have a bit of background knowledge about Plath’s life history before tackling this behemoth.
I’m struck by the extent of Sylvia’s crippling codependency with Hughes. There is a distinct change in the tone of her writing once the handsome and talented T.H. enters her sphere of existence. Her focus becomes noticeably less about bettering herself as a poet and a writer and noticeably more about managing and furthering Ted’s career. I’m not suggesting he would have floundered without her, I’m just saying that… well… even though Plath rarely disparages his character, he still comes off looking like a complete asshole.
January 16, 2023
سیلویای عزیز، سلام.
معذرت میخوام. من ازت معذرت میخوام. بخاطر اینکه دنیا خیلی باهات بیرحم بود، بخاطر اینکه هیچکس متوجه تو نشد، بخاطر اینکه همیشه احساس کردی تو اضافی هستی، بخاطر اینکه احساس کردی تو مشکل هستی نه یک انسان، سیلویای عزیز، من ازت بخاطر تمام دردهایی که کشیدی معذرت میخوام.
و در اخر سیلویای عزیز، من نتونستم. من مجبور شدم رهات کنم، چون حالت به شدت برای من آشنا و تاثیر گذار بود، من مجبور شدم رهات کنم، دلم نمیخواست، میخواستم تا تهش کنارت باشم ولی نتونستم. من رو ببخش سیلویای عزیز.
ولی بدون من در اعماق قلبم، در اعماق روحم، در اعماق وجودم احساساتت رو درک کردم. من درک کردم چهچیزهایی کشیدی و چه ذهن آشفته ولی روح بزرگی داشتی. بزرگی تو نشون میداد که افراد همراهت کوچیک بودن که نتونستن بفهمنت، نتونستن وجودت رو بشکافن و خود حقیقیترو بهت نشون بدن.
سیلویای عزیز، اگر مردم دلم میخواد ببینمت، بغلت کنم و برات گریه کنم و بهت بگم درد تموم شد. حالا میتونی آروم باشی.
«دی ماه ۱۴۰۱»
معذرت میخوام. من ازت معذرت میخوام. بخاطر اینکه دنیا خیلی باهات بیرحم بود، بخاطر اینکه هیچکس متوجه تو نشد، بخاطر اینکه همیشه احساس کردی تو اضافی هستی، بخاطر اینکه احساس کردی تو مشکل هستی نه یک انسان، سیلویای عزیز، من ازت بخاطر تمام دردهایی که کشیدی معذرت میخوام.
و در اخر سیلویای عزیز، من نتونستم. من مجبور شدم رهات کنم، چون حالت به شدت برای من آشنا و تاثیر گذار بود، من مجبور شدم رهات کنم، دلم نمیخواست، میخواستم تا تهش کنارت باشم ولی نتونستم. من رو ببخش سیلویای عزیز.
ولی بدون من در اعماق قلبم، در اعماق روحم، در اعماق وجودم احساساتت رو درک کردم. من درک کردم چهچیزهایی کشیدی و چه ذهن آشفته ولی روح بزرگی داشتی. بزرگی تو نشون میداد که افراد همراهت کوچیک بودن که نتونستن بفهمنت، نتونستن وجودت رو بشکافن و خود حقیقیترو بهت نشون بدن.
سیلویای عزیز، اگر مردم دلم میخواد ببینمت، بغلت کنم و برات گریه کنم و بهت بگم درد تموم شد. حالا میتونی آروم باشی.
«دی ماه ۱۴۰۱»
January 14, 2018
،کتابی رو سراغ ندارم که نویسنده ش انقدر دقیق و هنرمندانه و عمیق، تمام کلام و احساساتی که همیشه می خواستم بگم ولی از ترس گرفتار شدن به دام ابتذال هیچوقت نتونستم رو به زیبایی نوشته باشه. حدود پونصد صفحه س و مسلمن جزئیات خسته کننده هم توش هست ولی بخش گسترده ای از کتاب بیان آشفتگی ها و تشویش هاییه که هر زنی -هر آدمی- با دغدغه پیشرفت و درجا نزدن و فرار از جمود و رخوت هر روزه ممکنه بهش دچار بشه. خود پلات اسم کتاب خاطراتش رو گذاشته بود: دیوان رویاها، دستورها و ضروریات. می دونم در آینده بارها و بارها میرم سراغ این کتاب.
May 6, 2021
I picked up this book to get an intimate understanding of Sylva Plath. What made this woman tick? I wanted to get a handle on both her thoughts and her emotions. Secondly, I love lyrical prose, but have a hard time sitting down with an anthology, and so I thought this book would fit the bill. The book satisfied me on both accounts.
I lapped up Plath’s vivid, colorful, emotive prose. Her descriptions overflow with perfectly chosen details. I was looking for beautiful, lyrical prose and I got it. Of course, not in every line. Plath’s prose goes up and down, along with her moods. Plath was diagnosed as being clinically depressed for much of her adult life. She underwent electroconvulsive therapy and consulted psychiatrists. All along the way, I sensed in her writing her emotional state.
What makes the book difficult to read is that so much is missing. The problem is not just that her last two journals are missing—the last was destroyed by Ted Hughes and the one before that he said could not be found. Journal entries for the days preceding her suicide are thus absent. Her poems are not here; instead she throws out ideas for new novels and short stories. The journals were never intended for publication. As a consequence, they are not always simple to follow. Lines can be misinterpreted. Who is who is not explained. In her journal, after the party when she first met Ted, she obliquely speaks of meeting a “big dark hunky boy, the only one huge enough for me.” This is in fact Ted. He kisses her. She returns with a bite to his cheek. In addition to being confusing, at several crucial periods in her life, Plath wrote not a word in her journals. Startling is the absence of information even at those times when she has daily entries. Extremely little is said about Ted after they first meet! I cannot remember her saying a single thing about the electroshock treatments. When Plath finally becomes pregnant, after moaning and groaning about not ovulating and thus not being able to get pregnant, she fails to rejoice in her journal when she does become pregnant! I counted backwards from the birth and so knew when the pregnancy must have begun to show, but she says not a word. What you note is that her complaining abruptly stops!
My point is this, even if you have read Plath biographies, it is important to keep in mind the exact days when events occur. Why? Because this information is often lacking. I made the following dateline chart so the dates would be easily accessible. I put it here to help others.
DATELINE
*Sylvia Plath: American poet, Oct 27, 1932 – Feb 11, 1963
*Ted Hughes: English poet, August 17, 1930 – Oct 28, 1998
*August 24, 1953: Plath's first medically documented suicide attempt.
*Feb 25, 1956: Plath and Hughes first meet-she s 23 and he’s 25.
*June 16, 1956: Plath and Hughes marry.
*April 1, 1960: Frieda born (London) and is still alive.
*February 1961: Miscarriage
*January 17, 1962: Nicholas born (North Tawton, UK). Death by suicide on Mar 16, 2009.
*June 1962: Plath’s car accident / suicide attempt
*July 1962: Plath’s discovery of Hughes’ affair with Assia Gitmann Wevill.
*September / October 1962: Plath and Hughes separate.
*February 11, 1963: Plath’s suicide
I find it particularly interesting to note Plath’s thoughts and emotions as these events occur, although they are not pointedly mentioned!
The book is by no means a typical autobiography. The reader must be aware of the events of Sylvia Plath’s life, before reading this book! The title of the book indicates that one is given her unabridged journal entries, and that is exactly what one is given, nothing more! Added editorial information is minimal.
Plath discusses authors that she admires. She dissects how they write so she can learn from them. It is fun to observe her analyses of books and authors you have read yourself! Both she and I are fans of D.H. Lawrence.
Reading this book, one cannot help but ponder the relationship between Plath and Hughes. She loved him to pieces. When he betrayed her, it is not surprising she fell apart. An emotionally strong and stable woman might be able to cope with infidelity, but this Plath was not! She had a whirlwind vitality and vibrant energy, but underneath she was unsure of herself. Lacking in self-confidence, she demanded always more of herself, to a point where she cracks.
Portions, i.e. fragments of journals, notes and letters, are taken out of the central text and placed in appendices. I see no logical explanation for the information relegated here. Nicholas’ birth is placed in an appendix! The appendices are not all arranged in chronological order. I wanted to listen to them with the journal entries of the same period. In the audio format, this is possible but complicated—you have to go back and forth between different parts. Until you get the hang of it, it’s easy to get lost. It is both time consuming and annoying. The appendices are a nuisance.
Tanya Eby narrates the audiobook very well. With the new Audible app, I reduced the speed down to 90% and then it was perfect. Words are clearly pronounced and spoken with feeling. Four stars for the narration.
It is easier to read a biography than this. There is so much missing. The advantage of this is that you hear Plath’s own words. Next in line for me is to look at the couple’s marriage from Ted Hughes’ perspective. I have already begun Her Husband: Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath - A Marriage.
*****************
*The Bell Jar 3 stars by Sylvia Plath
*The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath 3 stars by Sylvia Plath
*Her Husband: Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath - A Marriage by Diane Wood Middlebrook reading
*Red Comet: The Short Life and Blazing Art of Sylvia Plath TBR by Heather Clark
I lapped up Plath’s vivid, colorful, emotive prose. Her descriptions overflow with perfectly chosen details. I was looking for beautiful, lyrical prose and I got it. Of course, not in every line. Plath’s prose goes up and down, along with her moods. Plath was diagnosed as being clinically depressed for much of her adult life. She underwent electroconvulsive therapy and consulted psychiatrists. All along the way, I sensed in her writing her emotional state.
What makes the book difficult to read is that so much is missing. The problem is not just that her last two journals are missing—the last was destroyed by Ted Hughes and the one before that he said could not be found. Journal entries for the days preceding her suicide are thus absent. Her poems are not here; instead she throws out ideas for new novels and short stories. The journals were never intended for publication. As a consequence, they are not always simple to follow. Lines can be misinterpreted. Who is who is not explained. In her journal, after the party when she first met Ted, she obliquely speaks of meeting a “big dark hunky boy, the only one huge enough for me.” This is in fact Ted. He kisses her. She returns with a bite to his cheek. In addition to being confusing, at several crucial periods in her life, Plath wrote not a word in her journals. Startling is the absence of information even at those times when she has daily entries. Extremely little is said about Ted after they first meet! I cannot remember her saying a single thing about the electroshock treatments. When Plath finally becomes pregnant, after moaning and groaning about not ovulating and thus not being able to get pregnant, she fails to rejoice in her journal when she does become pregnant! I counted backwards from the birth and so knew when the pregnancy must have begun to show, but she says not a word. What you note is that her complaining abruptly stops!
My point is this, even if you have read Plath biographies, it is important to keep in mind the exact days when events occur. Why? Because this information is often lacking. I made the following dateline chart so the dates would be easily accessible. I put it here to help others.
DATELINE
*Sylvia Plath: American poet, Oct 27, 1932 – Feb 11, 1963
*Ted Hughes: English poet, August 17, 1930 – Oct 28, 1998
*August 24, 1953: Plath's first medically documented suicide attempt.
*Feb 25, 1956: Plath and Hughes first meet-she s 23 and he’s 25.
*June 16, 1956: Plath and Hughes marry.
*April 1, 1960: Frieda born (London) and is still alive.
*February 1961: Miscarriage
*January 17, 1962: Nicholas born (North Tawton, UK). Death by suicide on Mar 16, 2009.
*June 1962: Plath’s car accident / suicide attempt
*July 1962: Plath’s discovery of Hughes’ affair with Assia Gitmann Wevill.
*September / October 1962: Plath and Hughes separate.
*February 11, 1963: Plath’s suicide
I find it particularly interesting to note Plath’s thoughts and emotions as these events occur, although they are not pointedly mentioned!
The book is by no means a typical autobiography. The reader must be aware of the events of Sylvia Plath’s life, before reading this book! The title of the book indicates that one is given her unabridged journal entries, and that is exactly what one is given, nothing more! Added editorial information is minimal.
Plath discusses authors that she admires. She dissects how they write so she can learn from them. It is fun to observe her analyses of books and authors you have read yourself! Both she and I are fans of D.H. Lawrence.
Reading this book, one cannot help but ponder the relationship between Plath and Hughes. She loved him to pieces. When he betrayed her, it is not surprising she fell apart. An emotionally strong and stable woman might be able to cope with infidelity, but this Plath was not! She had a whirlwind vitality and vibrant energy, but underneath she was unsure of herself. Lacking in self-confidence, she demanded always more of herself, to a point where she cracks.
Portions, i.e. fragments of journals, notes and letters, are taken out of the central text and placed in appendices. I see no logical explanation for the information relegated here. Nicholas’ birth is placed in an appendix! The appendices are not all arranged in chronological order. I wanted to listen to them with the journal entries of the same period. In the audio format, this is possible but complicated—you have to go back and forth between different parts. Until you get the hang of it, it’s easy to get lost. It is both time consuming and annoying. The appendices are a nuisance.
Tanya Eby narrates the audiobook very well. With the new Audible app, I reduced the speed down to 90% and then it was perfect. Words are clearly pronounced and spoken with feeling. Four stars for the narration.
It is easier to read a biography than this. There is so much missing. The advantage of this is that you hear Plath’s own words. Next in line for me is to look at the couple’s marriage from Ted Hughes’ perspective. I have already begun Her Husband: Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath - A Marriage.
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*The Bell Jar 3 stars by Sylvia Plath
*The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath 3 stars by Sylvia Plath
*Her Husband: Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath - A Marriage by Diane Wood Middlebrook reading
*Red Comet: The Short Life and Blazing Art of Sylvia Plath TBR by Heather Clark
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