The Journals of Sylvia Plath

The Journals of Sylvia Plath [Sylvia Plath, Ted Hughes] on leondumoulin.nl *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Sylvia Plath began keeping a diary as a young.
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The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath by Sylvia Plath

I held my hand against my mouth, warm and bruised from his kiss. He looked at me quizzically, with something like surprised amusement as he saw that I was crying, frightened. No one ever kissed me that way before, and I stood there, flooded with longing, electric, shivering. He poured me out a glass, and I drank it. He opened the door, and I stumbled blindly downstairs, past Maybelle and Robert, the little colored children, who called my name in the corrupted way kids have of pronouncing things. Past Mary Lou, their mother, who stood there, a silent, dark presence.

And I was outdoors. A truck was going by. Coming from behind the barn. In it was Bernie - the horrible, short, muscular boy from the washroom. His eyes glittered with malicious delight, and he drove fast, so I could not catch up with him. Had he been in the barn? Had he seen Ilo shut the door, seen me come out? I think he must have. I walked up past the washroom to the cars. Bernie yelled out, "Why are you crying?

Kenny and Freddy came by on the tractor. A group of boys, going home, looked at me with a light flickering somewhere in their eyes. I couldn't have spoken if someone had talked to me.


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My voice was stuck in my throat, thick and furry. Tompkins came up to the pump to watch Kenny and Freddy run the old stock car. They were nice, but they knew. They all must know. So I stood there, arms folded, staring at the whirring engine, smiling as if I was all right, as if nothing had happened.

Milton sat in the rumble seat with me going home. David drove, and Andy was in front. They all looked at me with that dancing light in their eyes. David said in a stiff, strained voice, "Everybody in the washroom was watching you go into the barn and making wisecracks. Milton asked about the picture. We talked a little about art and drawing. They were all so nice. I think they may have been relieved at my narrow escape; they may have expected me to cry. They knew, though, they knew. And tomorrow I have to face the whole damn farm. Good Lord, It might have happened in a dream.

Now I can almost believe it did. But tomorrow my name will be on the tip of every tongue. I wish I could be smart, or flip, but I'm too scared. If only he hadn't kissed me. I'll have to lie and say he didn't. And what am I against so many? This morning I had my two left wisdom teeth out. I walked into the dentist's office. Quickly, with a heavy sense of impending doom, I sat in the chair after a rapid, furtive glance around the room for any obvious instruments of torture such as a pneumatic drill or a gas mask. The doctor pinned the bib around my neck; I was just about prepared for him to stick an apple in my mouth and strew sprigs of parsley on my head.

All he did was ask, "Gas or novacaine? Would like to see what we have on stock, madam? Death by fire or water, by the bullet or the noose. Anything to please the customer. The nurse sneaked up behind me, put a rubber oval over my nose, the tubes of it cutting pleasantly into my cheek. I tried not to fight it. The dentist put something in my mouth, and the gas began to come in in big gulps. I had been staring at the light. It quivered, shook, broke into little pieces. The whole constellation of little iridescent fragments started to swing in a rhythmic arc, slow at first, then faster, faster.

I didn't have to try hard to breathe now; something was pumping at my lungs, giving forth an odd, breathy wheeze as I exhaled. I felt my mouth cracking up into a smile. So that's how it was I had to write it, to describe how it was, before I went under.

I fancied my right hand was the tip of the arc, curved up, but just as my hand got into position, the arc would swing the other way, gaining momentum. How clever of them, I thought. They kept the feeling all secret; they wouldn't even let you write it down. And then I was on a pirate ship, the captain's face peering at me from behind the wheel, as he swung it, steering. There were columns of black, and green leaves, and he was saying loudly, "All right, close down easily, easily.


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I could see my feet, my arms; there I was. I tried hard to get back in my body again I lifted my hands, to my head; they shook. It was all over There it is; his name. And what can I say? I can say he called for me at nine Saturday night, that I was still weak from having two wisdom teeth out that morning. I can say that we went on a double date dancing at Ten Acres, that I drank five glasses, in the course of the evening, to the bottom, of sparkling tawny gingerale, while the others drank beer. But that's not it. This is how it was.

I dressed slowly, smoothing, perfuming, powdering. I sat upstairs in the moist gray twilight, with the rain trickling down outside, while the family talked and laughed with company down on the porch. They are all here. With each one so vividly and insistently present, and each one just as immediately countered by the energetic presence of another, it becomes clear that none of them, that is, none of them on their own, will, in fact, do. Other critics were more willing to base their readings of Plath's life on her words, and two - John Carey in the Sunday Times and David Sexton in the London Evening Standard - thought the journals established once and for all that she was unbalanced, impossible, perhaps doomed.

The corollary of their analysis was that Hughes did not deserve the opprobrium heaped on him for more than three decades by feminists who blamed him for Plath's death.

She craved the world's applause, money and love. But behind the eager mask howled a vortex of self-doubt Her elevation into a feminist icon seems curious, given the view of womanhood the journals express. Without a man, woman is incomplete. Single women have 'wry sour lemon acid' in their veins, and give off a 'sterile forced pathetic smell'.

Only through childbirth can a woman achieve true fulfilment Plath emerges from her account as an invalid. This new edition is an exact and complete transcription of the diaries Plath kept during the last twelve years of her life. Sixty percent of the book is material that has never before been made public, more fully revealing the intensity of the poet's personal and literary struggles, and providing fresh insight into both her frequent desperation and the bravery with which she faced down her demons.

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The Journals of Sylvia Plath 1950-1962

The first self-help political thriller. Anchor; Unabridged edition October 17, Language: Related Video Shorts 0 Upload your video. Heart of Darkness Everyman's Library. Pride and Prejudice Everyman's Library. A Book of Dead Poems. The best poetry of James Wylder: Share your thoughts with other customers. Write a customer review.

Read reviews that mention sylvia plath ted hughes bell jar unabridged journals virginia woolf journal entries must read journals of sylvia plath journals karen kukil husband ted love reading great book hughes destroyed destroyed the journals plath work reading this book love sylvia journals had been edited plath fans. There was a problem filtering reviews right now. Please try again later. Probably because I can relate to a lot of what she went through being mentally ill myself. Such a wonderful talent that we lost way too soon like so many others.

I cannot help but wonder what other wonderful things she would have written had she not made that fateful decision to end her life. She writes at great length about her life, her feelings, and all she went through. I have wanted this book for a long time now, and it did not disappoint. I want everything she has ever written. I do wish her husband hadn't destroyed the journals she had written up to the time of her death.

If you love Sylvia Plath as I do, this is a must read! Kindle Edition Verified Purchase. While Sylvia Plath is known for the way she passed away, head in the oven for those who do not know, the way she lived her life is reflected here, in her writings.

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They are deep and moving, they also make you want to sit down for hours and write out your own musings of the world and the people around you. I would definitely recommend this book to anyone remotely interested in Mrs. Plath, she is intelligent, insightful, witty and even her depressed moments teach you something about the world. I didn't realize how large this book was until it arrived. I will be occupied for a while and have a feeling I will come back to it over and over again, just like I did with The Bell Jar. Sylvia Plath was and is an incredible writer and one of my absolute favorites.