Tag Archives: Sylvia Plath

Embracing universes

Ever since CDs stopped being relevant, there are only two things in the world I like to purchase: clothes & books.

With clothes I get to express my moods, manifest ideas and cause immediate reactions. With books I absorb others’ impressions and feelings through their creative view of the world, and respond mentally to them.

I’m an avid yet inconstant reader, and I tend to read several novels at the same time – besides all the other readings I regularly do.

Sometimes it can take months before I finish one piece of work. This may be due to my reluctance to part from an enticing or surprising narrative – I get too attached to these universes which eventually help me build my own.

There are five books between which I’m presently dividing my attention, all I can but highly recommend:

1. Sagarana, by Guimarães Rosa;

2. Le Marin de Gibraltar, by Marguerite Duras;

3. Todos los fuegos el fuego, by Julio Cortázar;

4. The Line of Beauty, by Allan Hollinghurst and

5. The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath.

All of these are remarkable in their own right, but I am absolutely fascinated by Sylvia Plath’s only published novel.

Sylvia Plath

It is so relieving to enter someone else’s life, sharing their impressions, views, loves and fears, it is like one gets a singular chance of reinterpreting one’s own reality.

Something I most earnestly ought to do.

Yesterday and a Belief

In many ways, the only thing in which I believe is children. They are but the true hope of a new tomorrow.

CHILD, by Sylvia Plath

Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new

Whose name you meditate --
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little

Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical

Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.

Nature is ancient

Though I love literature, I am not a poetry reader. Prose is what speaks to me the most.

Nonetheless, every now and then a poet or a poem find their way into my liking, and I always wish I would give it more of my attention.

I have been quite curious about Sylvia Plath for some time now. I find her words so dramatically touching that I often feel compelled to be in her shoes. What a surprising feeling.

Here’s a poem I found that I really liked:

I Am Vertical

But I would rather be horizontal.

I am not a tree with my root in the soil
Sucking up minerals and motherly love
So that each March I may gleam into leaf,
Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed
Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,
Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
Compared with me, a tree is immortal
And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
And I want the one’s longevity and the other’s daring.

Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,
The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
I must most perfectly resemble them–
Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.

It is so beautiful to think of death as a return to nature I dare not say more about Plath’s words.

I can only feel them.