to swift to chatter
reading plaths journals (1982) at work. ugh. it just fell into my bag.
"write & show (him) nothing" she advises herself.
oh then. so conscious in dress & thesausarus! years of spoilage!
why didnt you burn (your journals) before you gassed your head?
you could have made that wise & careful choice for sake of your reputation - same as taping up the door -
still its a racy read, its great pulp diary - she quotes lucretius "the tragedy of sex is the perpetual virginity of the soul" - and i like her exhausted knowledge: in spite of aweful anxiety & pretensions, even at 19, she has the exhaustion of the work-horse at chaucer & german & swinborg & dryden (off the top of my head) - its love maybe - i enjoy how she does see how she is better then snodgrass, rich, etc. (befuddled at their success:because she was crazy-sick-desperate-fake-desirous & they were plodding along at craft) although her reported fondness for SEXTON is baffling, maybe it was just fashion - these bores, these pedants: talking in monotones like the nation of zombie poets, most dreary reads in publications! a sophistated sort of trick it is: the play of whimless poets. serious stuff, worthy of academia. ok. from dirk & rose briar: to chatterton: to swift: to thomas, auden: scan their ranks, who doesnt joke or insult or wail shamelessly? yes, shamefully...
i found amusing place where she notes "i am weird". yes, she is the last of the weird sisters. & all alone.
sourcing: troubling rage beyond any reason i can really see (just a dead dad so souring? no), & no love of beauty, though she could gaze at flowers, even go to battle for lilacs, were it? and paint frightening red hearts, draw pretty things, exhaustingly admire landscape - really obvious, it was about the horror of the body, not beauty.
she does pin down the wretched ELIOT as what he is. & i feel the same for pound. maybe you can read the end at eliot. she contrasts eliot with yeats & result is outburst of understanding.
grr. last year i enjoyed that, her hard work. this year i feel the weight of pretentious diary pages & apalling letters while hughes was working on poems. but nevermind. she left almost same volume of work in one decade that he produced for "complete works" from early fifties til dead in 98.
.....................................................
In the penultimate poem, addressed to his children, Hughes writes about those who have written about Plath's work:
”Let them
Jerk their tail-stumps, bristle and vomit
Over their symposia.”
“Birthday Letters” produced a caricature of feminism as always pitying Plath and blaming Hughes as a man with no heart to speak of. This, of course, enraged legions of people who felt sympathy for Plath. The British literary critic Asad Yawar said the anthology "was an apologist diatribe concealed in honey" the feminist poet Robin Morgan told “Newsweek”: "My teeth began to grind uncontrollably."
................................................................
rather jealous obsession with marriage of working artists,i think: & female self-martyred artist that they all want to be: as if they've never known a woman-artist-suicide: too many such women are not workers (& plath even does identify herself in 1960 as a poet who hasnt written a succesful adult poem)and modeled the same, with the long hair & the exhaustion & vitriol & the bitter blame & moods.
plath worthy interest............tonight, electric chair: rapist murderer midnight death, virginia time, say "mercy seat" since he asked for it, didnt want lethal injection:
pretty girl died accidentally in "joyride" with friend, heard about on OPENDIARY
"write & show (him) nothing" she advises herself.
oh then. so conscious in dress & thesausarus! years of spoilage!
why didnt you burn (your journals) before you gassed your head?
you could have made that wise & careful choice for sake of your reputation - same as taping up the door -
still its a racy read, its great pulp diary - she quotes lucretius "the tragedy of sex is the perpetual virginity of the soul" - and i like her exhausted knowledge: in spite of aweful anxiety & pretensions, even at 19, she has the exhaustion of the work-horse at chaucer & german & swinborg & dryden (off the top of my head) - its love maybe - i enjoy how she does see how she is better then snodgrass, rich, etc. (befuddled at their success:because she was crazy-sick-desperate-fake-desirous & they were plodding along at craft) although her reported fondness for SEXTON is baffling, maybe it was just fashion - these bores, these pedants: talking in monotones like the nation of zombie poets, most dreary reads in publications! a sophistated sort of trick it is: the play of whimless poets. serious stuff, worthy of academia. ok. from dirk & rose briar: to chatterton: to swift: to thomas, auden: scan their ranks, who doesnt joke or insult or wail shamelessly? yes, shamefully...
i found amusing place where she notes "i am weird". yes, she is the last of the weird sisters. & all alone.
sourcing: troubling rage beyond any reason i can really see (just a dead dad so souring? no), & no love of beauty, though she could gaze at flowers, even go to battle for lilacs, were it? and paint frightening red hearts, draw pretty things, exhaustingly admire landscape - really obvious, it was about the horror of the body, not beauty.
she does pin down the wretched ELIOT as what he is. & i feel the same for pound. maybe you can read the end at eliot. she contrasts eliot with yeats & result is outburst of understanding.
grr. last year i enjoyed that, her hard work. this year i feel the weight of pretentious diary pages & apalling letters while hughes was working on poems. but nevermind. she left almost same volume of work in one decade that he produced for "complete works" from early fifties til dead in 98.
.....................................................
In the penultimate poem, addressed to his children, Hughes writes about those who have written about Plath's work:
”Let them
Jerk their tail-stumps, bristle and vomit
Over their symposia.”
“Birthday Letters” produced a caricature of feminism as always pitying Plath and blaming Hughes as a man with no heart to speak of. This, of course, enraged legions of people who felt sympathy for Plath. The British literary critic Asad Yawar said the anthology "was an apologist diatribe concealed in honey" the feminist poet Robin Morgan told “Newsweek”: "My teeth began to grind uncontrollably."
................................................................
rather jealous obsession with marriage of working artists,i think: & female self-martyred artist that they all want to be: as if they've never known a woman-artist-suicide: too many such women are not workers (& plath even does identify herself in 1960 as a poet who hasnt written a succesful adult poem)and modeled the same, with the long hair & the exhaustion & vitriol & the bitter blame & moods.
plath worthy interest............tonight, electric chair: rapist murderer midnight death, virginia time, say "mercy seat" since he asked for it, didnt want lethal injection:
pretty girl died accidentally in "joyride" with friend, heard about on OPENDIARY