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by Gordon Lamayer.
The Sylvia Plath Papers, The Lilly Library, The University of Indiana, Bloomington, Indiana.
Otto Plath,
the Father of Sylvia Plath
tto Plath was born on April 13, 1885 in Grabow, Germany. The young
Otto immigrated to the United States by himself in 1900. He did have
relatives here; his grandparents had settled in Watertown, Wisconsin in
1885. When he arrived in New York City from Hamburg, Germany, he stayed
with his uncle, who ran a liquor and food store. Otto audited classes at a grade
school in order to learn English. His parents, Theodore and Ernestine Platt, joined
Otto in the United States in 1901 with their younger five children.
Ottos grandparents expected him to become a minister in the Lutheran church,
and offered to pay his tuition at Northwestern College, located in their community
of Watertown, Wisconsin. When Otto discovered the writings of Charles Darwin
during college, he decided to study the sciences instead. Aurelia, his wife, later
wrote of his grandparents reaction: If he adhered to this infamous decision, he
would no longer be a part of the family. His name would be stricken from the
family Bible. And so it was done. He was on his own for the rest of his life. In the
wake of graduating from college and being disowned in 1910, Otto enrolled at the
University of Washington in Seattle, where he earned his Master of Arts degree.
In 1912, he married a friends sister, who left him after three weeks.
During WWI, Otto was put on an FBI watch list as an alien enemy with proGerman leanings because he could not afford war bonds. Patriotic Americans
were expected to support the war effort, but Otto was in debt and struggled to
keep a teaching job. At the time, he was studying at the University of California
Berkeley, which prohibited Germans from teaching. Lacking that assistantship
for teaching while working toward his doctorate, he moved to the Massachusetts
Institute of Technology, where he taught German. From 1921-1925, Otto studied
zoology at Harvard with an assistantship in entomology. He earned a Ph.D. in
applied biology from Harvard in 1928. In 1929, he was an entomologist and
professor of biology at Boston University. Ottos primary research interest focused
on bumblebees; he was especially interested in transferring bees into artificial hives
to gather honey. In 1934, he published his book, Bumblebees and their Ways.
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Otto was 20 years older than Aurelia, who was 27 when she
married her 47-year-old former professor. When Sylvia was
born, her father was 48, and not particularly affectionate toward
his children.
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Plaths Childhood
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I Thought That
I Could Not be Hurt
By Sylvia Plath
I thought that I could not be hurt;
I thought that I must surely be
impervious to sufferingimmune to pain
or agony.
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Helle Collection of Plath Family Photographs, Mortimer Rare Book Room, Smith College, Northampton, Massachusetts.
A Promising Adolescent:
Her High School Years
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Plath, center in black shirt and white hat, at Haven House, Smith College in May 1951.
The Sylvia Plath Collection, Mortimer Rare Book Room, Smith College, Northampton, Massachusetts.
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by Gordon Lamayer
Lamayer Mss., The Sylvia Plath Papers, The Lilly Library, The University of Indiana, Bloomington, Indiana.
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The Sylvia Plath Collection, Mortimer Rare Book Room, Smith College, Northampton, Massachusetts.
Rising Again:
Plaths Return to Smith 1954-1955
Moving to England,
Fall 1955-Spring 1956
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The Sylvia Plath Collection, Mortimer Rare Book Room, Smith College,
Northampton, Massachusetts.
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An Historic Moment:
Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes
Meeting and Whirlwind
Courtship, 1956
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Ted Hughes Papers, 1940-1999, Manuscript, Archives, and Rare Book Library,
Emory University, Atlanta, Georgia.
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questions intended to help them understand their own was popular in the 1950s and 1960s, is defined as: An
belief systems by eliminating contradictions. This method autobiographical mode of verse that reveals the poets
was practiced at Cambridge. If students did not meet her personal problems with unusual frankness.
high standards, she regarded the young
women as spoiled and lazy.
Furthermore, she lamented that teaching
left little time for her writing. She refused
the schools offer to return a second
year. Softening her technique during
her second semester, Plath ended her
teaching period at Smith on a positive
note. Ted, who had been teaching at the
University of Massachusetts at Amherst,
also quit teaching.
On June 25, 1958, The New Yorker
published Plaths poems Mussel-Hunter
at Rock Harbor and Nocturne.
Plath and Hughes moved to Boston
in September. Plath took a job typing
psychiatric records at Massachusetts
General Hospital, which provided an
income as well as the material for her
story Johnny Panic and the Bible of
Dreams. Johnny Panic is widely
regarded as her finest short story. In
early 1959, she began taking a class with
poet Robert Lowell at Boston University,
where she met and befriended the poet
Anne Sexton. Plath, Lowell, and Sexton
would later be considered confessional
poets.
Confessional poetry, which
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Stephen Spender, W.H. Auden, Ted Hughes, T.S. Eliot, and Louis MacNeice, A pride of Poets, April 21, 1960.
Ted Hughes Papers, 1940-1999, Manuscript, Archives, and Rare Book Library, Emory University, Atlanta, Georgia.
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Publication of
The Colossus and Other Poems
The Colossus and Other Poems was published in late 1960
by the William Heinemann publishing house. Plaths first
book of poetry was a critical success. A. Alvarez wrote
a shining review: [Plath] steers clear of feminine charm,
deliciousness, gentility, super sensitivity and the act of
being a poetess. She simply writes good poetry. Other
critics ranked her talents next to those of her husband as
well as Theodore Roethke.
The title poem, The Colossus, refers to Plaths
monumental memory of her dead father. She says in
the poem: I shall never get you put together entirely,
lamenting his early departure from her life. Otto Plath
was a man she could never really know. A supplicant to
the enormous loss, in the poem she crawls like an ant in
morning trying to mend the immense skull plates of the
statue and dredge the silt from your throat so that he
may speak to her.
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Lorelei
By Sylvia Plath
It is no night to drown in:
A full moon, river lapsing
Black beneath bland mirror-sheen,
The blue water-mists dropping
Scrim after scrim like fishnets
Though fishermen are sleeping,
The massive castle turrets
Doubling themselves in a glass
All stillness. Yet these shapes float
Up toward me, troubling the face
Of quiet. From the nadir
They rise, their limbs ponderous
With richness, hair heavier
Than sculptured marble. They sing
Of a world more full and clear
Than can be. Sisters, your song
Bears a burden too weighty
For the whorled ears listening
Here, in a well-steered country,
Under a balanced ruler.
Deranging by harmony
Beyond the mundane order,
Your voices lay siege. You lodge
On the pitched reefs of nightmare,
Promising sure harborage;
By day, descant from borders
Of hebetude, from the ledge
Also of high windows. Worse
Even than your maddening
Song, your silence. At the source
Of your ice-hearted callingDrunkenness of the great depths.
O river, I see drifting
Deep in your flux of silver
Those great goddesses of peace.
Stone, stone, ferry me down there.
The opening paragraphs of The Bell Jar, originally published under the
nom de plume Victoria Lucas. This was Sylvia Plaths only completed novel.
Chapter I
t was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs,
and I didnt know what I was doing
in New York. Im stupid about executions.
The idea of being electrocuted makes me
sick, and thats all there was to read about
in the papers goggle-eyed headlines staring up at me on every street corner and at
the fusty, peanut-smelling mouth of every
subway. It had nothing to do with me, but
I couldnt help wondering what it would
be like, being burned alive all along your
nerves.
Willard, who was responsible for my seeing it in the first place, and pretty soon I
felt as though I were carrying that cadavers head around with me on a string, like
some black, noiseless balloon stinking of
vinegar. I knew something was wrong with
me that summer, because all I could think
about was the Rosenbergs and how stupid
Id been to buy all those uncomfortable,
expensive clothes, hanging limp as fish in
my closet, and how all the little successes
Id totted up so happily at college fizzled to
nothing outside the slick marble and plateglass fronts along Madison Avenue.
I thought it must be the worst thing in the I was supposed to be having the time of my
world.
life.
New York was bad enough. By nine in the
morning the fake, country-wet freshness
that somehow seeped in overnight evaporated like the tail end of a sweet dream.
Mirage-gray at the bottom of their granite canyons, the hot streets wavered in the
sun, the car tops sizzled and glittered, and
the dry, cindery dust blew into my eyes and
down my throat.
I kept hearing about the Rosenbergs over
the radio and at the office till I couldnt get
them out of my mind. It was like the first
time I saw a cadaver. For weeks afterwards,
the cadavers head or what there was left
of it floated up behind my eggs and bacon
at breakfast and behind the face of Buddy
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I was supposed to be the envy of thousands of other college girls just like me all
over America who wanted nothing more
than to be tripping about in those same
size seven patent leather shoes Id bought
in Bloomingdales one lunch hour with a
black patent leather belt and black patent
leather pocket-book to match. And when
my picture came out in the magazine the
twelve of us were working on drinking
martinis in a skimpy, imitation silver-lam
bodice stuck on to a big, fat cloud of white
tulle, on some Starlight Roof, in the company of several anonymous young men
with all-American bone structures hired or
loaned for the occasion everybody would
think I must be having a real whirl.
by Siv Arb,
Ted Hughs Papers,
Special Collections and Archives,
Robert Woodruff Library, Emory University
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Vitrine ???
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hen the phone rang at Court Green on July 9, 1962, Sylvia rushed to
answer. Assia Wevill, an aspiring poet and the wife of the Canadian
poet David Wevill, had been meeting Hughes in London during June
of 1962. Carl Rollyson, in his Plath biography American Isis, describes the phone
call incident: [Plath] recognized the woman asking for Ted, even though Assia
lowered her voice, pretending, Sylvia thought, to be a man. After Ted hung up,
Sylvia ripped the phone from the wall. To Plath, the call confirmed her suspicion
that Ted was having an affair. Even more embarrassing to Sylvia, was that her
mother, who was visiting in England at the time, overheard the entire fiasco.
Plath and Hughes had been renting their old London apartment to the Wevills,
and were friends of the couple. After David Wevill learned of the affair between
Assia and Ted, he threatened his rival with a butcher knife and then unsuccessfully
tried to end his own life with a bottle of sleeping pills. Assia and David continued
their marriage on and off until divorcing in 1966.
Sylvia could not forgive Teds infidelity. They tried to reconcile over the summer,
but by fall 1962, she was intent on divorce. Taking Frieda and Nick to London,
she relocated to a flat once owned by W.B. Yeats, where she planned to live in
the literary limelight and hold salons. The weather did not agree with her plans.
In the story Snow Blitz, Plath recalls her worst winter in England plagued by
unshoveled sidewalks, frozen pipes, and frequent losses of electricity. She and
her children were constantly sick with fever.
Dr. Horder, her English psychiatrist, prescribed an antidepressant for her at the
end of January. Meanwhile, Aurelia suggested that she move to America with the
children. Plath refused. By February 8, 1963 Dr. Horder scheduled a hospital
rest for her, but she spent the weekend with friends instead. Three days later,
in the early hours of February 11, 1963 while her children were sleeping, Sylvia
blocked the kitchen door with towels and rags. She turned on the gas, knelt
before the oven, and took her own life.
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Ted Hughes Papers, 1940-1999, Manuscript, Archives, and Rare Book Library,
Emory University, Atlanta, Georgia.
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Pursuit
By Sylvia Plath
Dans le fond des forts
votre image me suit.
RACINE
(In the bottom of forests your image follows me)
Vitrine
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caption in her journal reads: Look at that ugly dead mask here and do not forget it. It was written during a period of depression.
Helle Collection of Plath Family Photographs, Mortimer Rare Book Room,
Smith College, Northampton, Massachusetts.
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