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Letters Home
Letters Home represents Sylvia Plath's correspondence from her time at Smith College in the early fifties, through her meeting with, and subsequent marriage to, the poet Ted Hughes, up to her death in February 1963. The letters are addressed mainly to her mother, with whom she had an extremely close and confiding relationship, but there are also some to her brother Warren and her benefactress Mrs Prouty. Plath's energy, enthusiasm and her passionate tackling of life burst onto these pages, providing us with a vivid and intimate portrait of a woman who has come to be regarded as one of the greatest of twentieth-century poets. In addition to her capacity for domestic and writerly happiness, however, these letters also hint at Plath's potential for deep despair, which reached its crisis when she holed up in a London flat for the terrible winter of 1963.
502 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1975
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About the author
Sylvia Plath
280 books28.5k followersSylvia Plath was an American poet, novelist, and short story writer, widely regarded as one of the most influential and emotionally powerful authors of the 20th century. Born in Boston, Massachusetts, she demonstrated literary talent from an early age, publishing her first poem at the age of eight. Her early life was shaped by the death of her father, Otto Plath, when she was eight years old, a trauma that would profoundly influence her later work.
Plath attended Smith College, where she excelled academically but also struggled privately with depression. In 1953, she survived a suicide attempt, an experience she later fictionalized in her semi-autobiographical novel The Bell Jar. After recovering, she earned a Fulbright Scholarship to study at Newnham College, Cambridge, in England. While there, she met and married English poet Ted Hughes in 1956. Their relationship was passionate but tumultuous, with tensions exacerbated by personal differences and Hughes's infidelities.
Throughout her life, Plath sought to balance her ambitions as a writer with the demands of marriage and motherhood. She had two children with Hughes, Frieda and Nicholas, and continued to write prolifically. In 1960, her first poetry collection, The Colossus and Other Poems, was published in the United Kingdom. Although it received modest critical attention at the time, it laid the foundation for her distinctive voice—intensely personal, often exploring themes of death, rebirth, and female identity.
Plath's marriage unraveled in 1962, leading to a period of intense emotional turmoil but also extraordinary creative output. Living with her two children in London, she wrote many of the poems that would posthumously form Ariel, the collection that would cement her literary legacy. These works, filled with striking imagery and raw emotional force, displayed her ability to turn personal suffering into powerful art. Poems like "Daddy" and "Lady Lazarus" remain among her most famous, celebrated for their fierce honesty and technical brilliance.
In early 1963, following a deepening depression, Plath died by suicide at the age of 30. Her death shocked the literary world and sparked a lasting fascination with her life and work. The posthumous publication of Ariel in 1965, edited by Hughes, introduced Plath's later poetry to a wide audience and established her as a major figure in modern literature. Her novel The Bell Jar was also published under her own name shortly after her death, having initially appeared under the pseudonym "Victoria Lucas."
Plath’s work is often classified within the genre of confessional poetry, a style that emphasizes personal and psychological experiences. Her fearless exploration of themes like mental illness, female oppression, and death has resonated with generations of readers and scholars. Over time, Plath has become a feminist icon, though her legacy is complex and occasionally controversial, especially in light of debates over Hughes's role in managing her literary estate and personal history.
Today, Sylvia Plath is remembered not only for her tragic personal story but also for her immense contributions to American and English literature. Her work continues to inspire writers, artists, and readers worldwide. Collections such as Ariel, Crossing the Water, and Winter Trees, as well as her journals and letters, offer deep insight into her creative mind. Sylvia Plath’s voice, marked by its intensity and emotional clarity, remains one of the most haunting and enduring in modern literature.
Plath attended Smith College, where she excelled academically but also struggled privately with depression. In 1953, she survived a suicide attempt, an experience she later fictionalized in her semi-autobiographical novel The Bell Jar. After recovering, she earned a Fulbright Scholarship to study at Newnham College, Cambridge, in England. While there, she met and married English poet Ted Hughes in 1956. Their relationship was passionate but tumultuous, with tensions exacerbated by personal differences and Hughes's infidelities.
Throughout her life, Plath sought to balance her ambitions as a writer with the demands of marriage and motherhood. She had two children with Hughes, Frieda and Nicholas, and continued to write prolifically. In 1960, her first poetry collection, The Colossus and Other Poems, was published in the United Kingdom. Although it received modest critical attention at the time, it laid the foundation for her distinctive voice—intensely personal, often exploring themes of death, rebirth, and female identity.
Plath's marriage unraveled in 1962, leading to a period of intense emotional turmoil but also extraordinary creative output. Living with her two children in London, she wrote many of the poems that would posthumously form Ariel, the collection that would cement her literary legacy. These works, filled with striking imagery and raw emotional force, displayed her ability to turn personal suffering into powerful art. Poems like "Daddy" and "Lady Lazarus" remain among her most famous, celebrated for their fierce honesty and technical brilliance.
In early 1963, following a deepening depression, Plath died by suicide at the age of 30. Her death shocked the literary world and sparked a lasting fascination with her life and work. The posthumous publication of Ariel in 1965, edited by Hughes, introduced Plath's later poetry to a wide audience and established her as a major figure in modern literature. Her novel The Bell Jar was also published under her own name shortly after her death, having initially appeared under the pseudonym "Victoria Lucas."
Plath’s work is often classified within the genre of confessional poetry, a style that emphasizes personal and psychological experiences. Her fearless exploration of themes like mental illness, female oppression, and death has resonated with generations of readers and scholars. Over time, Plath has become a feminist icon, though her legacy is complex and occasionally controversial, especially in light of debates over Hughes's role in managing her literary estate and personal history.
Today, Sylvia Plath is remembered not only for her tragic personal story but also for her immense contributions to American and English literature. Her work continues to inspire writers, artists, and readers worldwide. Collections such as Ariel, Crossing the Water, and Winter Trees, as well as her journals and letters, offer deep insight into her creative mind. Sylvia Plath’s voice, marked by its intensity and emotional clarity, remains one of the most haunting and enduring in modern literature.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 171 reviews
July 19, 2009
When I started this I was not at all sure whether I wanted to read it. I liked The Bell Jar, but it could just have been the time I read it. I do not get her poetry. Cult of the personality stuff makes me uncomfortable. Doesn't she deserve to be laid to rest, anyway. Blah.
BUT! I read the first couple of letters and was sucked in. It seems like she used her letters in a similar way that I use my diary, so I felt as if I was right in her life. And although the events of her life in September 1950 might not be particularly interesting to anyone who is not particularly interested in Sylvia Plath, it was very interesting to me (even though I tell myself I am not particularly interested in Sylvia Plath). But in September 1950 she moved away from her family to go off to college. Now, I have just moved away from my family to go off to college! (Though I call it 'university'.) And there are other superficial similarities too. And so I was in the rather odd position of finding myself reading what was in places almost an exact transcript of my life. I am in the habit of dog-earing pages which contain something I find profound or striking, but in the early stages of this book I found myself dog-earing so many pages that I had to start underlining instead because there weren't enough corners to fold. Which is all very well, except that there are few people in the world I would less like to resemble.
It's difficult not to read her poetry and such autobiographically - I feel so desperately sorry for her because of how everything she did seems to be coloured by her marriage to Ted Hughes and her suicide and a sort of hysterical, whining feminism (and there is a little voice in my head that says that none of this would ever have happened if she was a man). Similarly, it's hard not to read her letters autobiographically, hard not to be continually searching for some evidence of a hormonal imbalance in the brain. And you find it, too, in what seems like the almost desperate happiness that comes through when she writes (though probably it is sincere and the desperation is the product of your imagination). And when she mentions her "old resilient optimism" and says she should "never commit suicide, because something unexpected always happens", you tut and shake your head in disbelief. Because doesn't this imply that she has already considered suicide? And is that not the saddest thing?
I think, though, after a few pages I forgot it was Sylvia Plath and started reading as if it was just a girl. A young woman, a bit like me. I was completely absorbed in her life, so when her first suicide attempt turned up (the one The Bell Jar is based on, presumably), I was severely shaken. It was a shock. To my relief, though, as the speed with which her letters covered her life outstripped my own life, she began to resemble me less and less. Which was good. The only reason I saw myself in her letters is because she writes about things that are fairly universal, or at least relatively common, things for people to feel: the excitement of moving away from home, the optimism about starting afresh in a place you really want to love, the fondness you feel for anyone and everyone who crosses your path, the stages of partial disillusionment, homesickness, fatigue that come later. Unfortunately, since I'm not overly fascinated by her biography, reading about her life is no longer all that interesting (maybe I'm just self-obsessed). So I'm putting this aside for now.
Nonetheless, she does write beautifully, and although some of the things she wrote could have been lifted directly from my diaries without even needing to change any of the specifics, more often than not I found myself reading a rather perfect evocation of something I had never thought to write down, or had not been able to express properly when I tried. Something I thought was mine alone.
"I felt that I was drowning in a sea of personalities, each one as eager to be a whole individual as I was."
And this, is it not, is one of the greatest reasons why we read. The best writing can break down the walls that separate us from each other - it can overcome the limitations of perception so we can understand what other people feel. "It is as if a hand has reached out, and taken yours." It is a whisper in the darkness as you lie awake at night, unable to sleep: You are not alone.
A measure of loneliness is the price we pay for self-awareness. Even the company of a suicidal manic-depressive whose poetry I don't get is better than nothing.
BUT! I read the first couple of letters and was sucked in. It seems like she used her letters in a similar way that I use my diary, so I felt as if I was right in her life. And although the events of her life in September 1950 might not be particularly interesting to anyone who is not particularly interested in Sylvia Plath, it was very interesting to me (even though I tell myself I am not particularly interested in Sylvia Plath). But in September 1950 she moved away from her family to go off to college. Now, I have just moved away from my family to go off to college! (Though I call it 'university'.) And there are other superficial similarities too. And so I was in the rather odd position of finding myself reading what was in places almost an exact transcript of my life. I am in the habit of dog-earing pages which contain something I find profound or striking, but in the early stages of this book I found myself dog-earing so many pages that I had to start underlining instead because there weren't enough corners to fold. Which is all very well, except that there are few people in the world I would less like to resemble.
It's difficult not to read her poetry and such autobiographically - I feel so desperately sorry for her because of how everything she did seems to be coloured by her marriage to Ted Hughes and her suicide and a sort of hysterical, whining feminism (and there is a little voice in my head that says that none of this would ever have happened if she was a man). Similarly, it's hard not to read her letters autobiographically, hard not to be continually searching for some evidence of a hormonal imbalance in the brain. And you find it, too, in what seems like the almost desperate happiness that comes through when she writes (though probably it is sincere and the desperation is the product of your imagination). And when she mentions her "old resilient optimism" and says she should "never commit suicide, because something unexpected always happens", you tut and shake your head in disbelief. Because doesn't this imply that she has already considered suicide? And is that not the saddest thing?
I think, though, after a few pages I forgot it was Sylvia Plath and started reading as if it was just a girl. A young woman, a bit like me. I was completely absorbed in her life, so when her first suicide attempt turned up (the one The Bell Jar is based on, presumably), I was severely shaken. It was a shock. To my relief, though, as the speed with which her letters covered her life outstripped my own life, she began to resemble me less and less. Which was good. The only reason I saw myself in her letters is because she writes about things that are fairly universal, or at least relatively common, things for people to feel: the excitement of moving away from home, the optimism about starting afresh in a place you really want to love, the fondness you feel for anyone and everyone who crosses your path, the stages of partial disillusionment, homesickness, fatigue that come later. Unfortunately, since I'm not overly fascinated by her biography, reading about her life is no longer all that interesting (maybe I'm just self-obsessed). So I'm putting this aside for now.
Nonetheless, she does write beautifully, and although some of the things she wrote could have been lifted directly from my diaries without even needing to change any of the specifics, more often than not I found myself reading a rather perfect evocation of something I had never thought to write down, or had not been able to express properly when I tried. Something I thought was mine alone.
"I felt that I was drowning in a sea of personalities, each one as eager to be a whole individual as I was."
And this, is it not, is one of the greatest reasons why we read. The best writing can break down the walls that separate us from each other - it can overcome the limitations of perception so we can understand what other people feel. "It is as if a hand has reached out, and taken yours." It is a whisper in the darkness as you lie awake at night, unable to sleep: You are not alone.
A measure of loneliness is the price we pay for self-awareness. Even the company of a suicidal manic-depressive whose poetry I don't get is better than nothing.
June 29, 2007
The disparity between her bleak poetry and these almost desperately cheerful letters to her mother is heartbreaking.
August 10, 2009
Mothers/daughter relationships--unless you're part of the duo, you'll never, ever get it. My boyfriend does, my brother doesn't--my father gets us both, but even he doesn't get us "together." As far as I can tell, how do you co-exist with someone you love, admire, hate, hope the best for/worst for? How do you take someone seriously you've known since they were in diapers? And likewise, how do you take someone seriously that you've spent your whole life working to "out do"? Mothers and daughters are set up to fail.
But the love that's undenably there is very special. I've spent years reading about Sylvia Plath. That's what girls from 15 to 30 are supposed to do, right? I've always loved her books, poems and most of all, diaries, which is what her letters to her mother most closely resemble. While Plath's letters to Ted Hughes, her husband, show her as strong, romantic and stubborn, the Sivvy who writes letters to her mother is another person entirely. To Aurelia Plath, Sylvia Plath does what she rarely was able to: tell the truth--the real truth, not just some confessional, grotesque, mouth-gaping version of it, but the actual truth according to Sylvia.
In these letters to her mother, Sylvia Plath dares to admit her uncertainties, to reflect her personal fears, failures and questions on her mental status.
Why? Because you can't hide from your mother, even if you want to (and our mothers are usually who we WISH we could hide from most). So, in this rare look at Plath, when Sylvia allows herself to be more even and human than I've ever seen her, we see Siivy in her most even tones, which is crutial, if you ever want to see her as realistic.
I loved it--especially Aurelia's notes at the bottoms of each page, indicating Syliva could not hide. Not from her mother. Not ever.
But the love that's undenably there is very special. I've spent years reading about Sylvia Plath. That's what girls from 15 to 30 are supposed to do, right? I've always loved her books, poems and most of all, diaries, which is what her letters to her mother most closely resemble. While Plath's letters to Ted Hughes, her husband, show her as strong, romantic and stubborn, the Sivvy who writes letters to her mother is another person entirely. To Aurelia Plath, Sylvia Plath does what she rarely was able to: tell the truth--the real truth, not just some confessional, grotesque, mouth-gaping version of it, but the actual truth according to Sylvia.
In these letters to her mother, Sylvia Plath dares to admit her uncertainties, to reflect her personal fears, failures and questions on her mental status.
Why? Because you can't hide from your mother, even if you want to (and our mothers are usually who we WISH we could hide from most). So, in this rare look at Plath, when Sylvia allows herself to be more even and human than I've ever seen her, we see Siivy in her most even tones, which is crutial, if you ever want to see her as realistic.
I loved it--especially Aurelia's notes at the bottoms of each page, indicating Syliva could not hide. Not from her mother. Not ever.
Read
November 24, 2023Necessito viatjar en el temps per agafar al seu marit, Ted Hughes, i dir-li quatre coses seriosament. Les darreres cartes que hi ha al llibre són absolutament demolidores ❤️🩹
April 6, 2025
“The acid gossip of the caustic wind,
The wry pucker of the lemon-colored moon,
And the sour blinking of the jaundiced stars…”
My heart breaks for Sylvia Plath. It breaks every damn time I read something of hers or about her. I wish a thousand times over that things could have been different. That the one person she needed the most would have stepped up and matched her in all that she gave them. I cannot imagine the hell that was the last bit of her life. Abandoned by the one she loved the most, left to tend two small children, struggling to provide for herself and them, all while trying to start over again with so much extra baggage. I can’t. That last winter was brutal. I can’t.
This book was put together by Plath’s mom. She shares letters Sylvia sent her. She shares so much, and it hurts. The details of Sylvia’s life during that time, of beauty and pain as seen through her eyes with a rose-tinted filter applied to reduce her mom’s worry. The soul crushing moments occur when the filter falls away and her pain bleeds through into the letters. As a mother I could not imagine being that far away and unable to be there at a moment’s notice. Knowing that what I was reading was weeks after the fact. I can’t.
I highly recommend this book to:
-fans of Plath.
-fans of the man of the hour, Ted Hughes. (F that guy.)
Five stars to a book that will haunt me the rest of my life.
QUOTES FROM PLATH:
“I am afraid of getting older. I am afraid of getting married. Spare me from cooking three meals a day—spare me from the relentless cage of routine and rote. I want to be free—free to know people and their backgrounds—free to move to different parts of the world so I may learn that there are other morals and standards besides my own. I want, I think, to be omniscient... I think I would like to call myself ‘The girl who wanted to be God.’ Yet if I were not in this body, where would I be—perhaps I am destined to be classified and qualified. But, oh, I cry out against it. I am I—I am powerful—but to what extent? I am I.”
“And now that I see how foolish I was in succumbing to what I thought were mental obstacles, I am determined to be as cheerful and constructive about my mental difficulties as I am going to be about this physical one. Naturally I will be a bit depressed and blue at times, and tired and uncomfortable, but there is that human principal which always finds that no matter how much is taken away, something is left to build against with.”
“…When he dies, his marks will not be written on his gravestone. If he has loved a book, been kind to someone, enjoyed a certain color in the sea—that is the thing that will show whether he has lived.”
“The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it; no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time.”
“I feel that all my life, all my pain and work has been for this one thing. All the blood spilt, the words written, the people loved, have been a work to fit me for loving…I see the power and voice in him that will shake the world alive. Even as he sees into my poems and will work with me to make me a woman poet like the world will gape at; even as he sees into my character and will tolerate no fallings away from my best right self.”
“I am so happy his book is accepted first. It will make it so much easier for me when mine is accepted—if only by the Yale Series, then by some other place. I can rejoice then, much more, knowing Ted is ahead of me. There is no question of rivalry, but only mutual joy and a sense of us doubling our price-winning and creative output.”
“…The next five months are grim ones. I always feel sorry to have the summertime change, with the dark evenings closing in in midafternoon, and will try to lay in some physical comforts this month—the best insurance against gloominess for me.”
A QUOTE FROM PLATH’S FRIEND:
“I am very proud of you, Sylvia. I love telling your story. Someone remarked to me after reading your poem in the Atlantic, ‘How intense.’ Sometime write me a little poem that isn’t intense. A lamp turned too high might shatter its chimney. Please just glow sometimes.”
QUOTES FROM PLATH’S MOM:
“She did not pretend the male was superior; she sought out those who were, and her confidence in her husband’s genius was unshakable.”
“On February 12, 1963, my sister received a cablegram from Ted, telling us ‘Sylvia died yesterday’ and giving details of the time and place of the funeral service.
Her physical energies had been depleted by illness, anxiety and overwork, and although she had for so long managed to be gallant and equal to the life-experience, some darker day than usual had temporarily made it seem impossible to pursue.”
The wry pucker of the lemon-colored moon,
And the sour blinking of the jaundiced stars…”
My heart breaks for Sylvia Plath. It breaks every damn time I read something of hers or about her. I wish a thousand times over that things could have been different. That the one person she needed the most would have stepped up and matched her in all that she gave them. I cannot imagine the hell that was the last bit of her life. Abandoned by the one she loved the most, left to tend two small children, struggling to provide for herself and them, all while trying to start over again with so much extra baggage. I can’t. That last winter was brutal. I can’t.
This book was put together by Plath’s mom. She shares letters Sylvia sent her. She shares so much, and it hurts. The details of Sylvia’s life during that time, of beauty and pain as seen through her eyes with a rose-tinted filter applied to reduce her mom’s worry. The soul crushing moments occur when the filter falls away and her pain bleeds through into the letters. As a mother I could not imagine being that far away and unable to be there at a moment’s notice. Knowing that what I was reading was weeks after the fact. I can’t.
I highly recommend this book to:
-fans of Plath.
-fans of the man of the hour, Ted Hughes. (F that guy.)
Five stars to a book that will haunt me the rest of my life.
QUOTES FROM PLATH:
“I am afraid of getting older. I am afraid of getting married. Spare me from cooking three meals a day—spare me from the relentless cage of routine and rote. I want to be free—free to know people and their backgrounds—free to move to different parts of the world so I may learn that there are other morals and standards besides my own. I want, I think, to be omniscient... I think I would like to call myself ‘The girl who wanted to be God.’ Yet if I were not in this body, where would I be—perhaps I am destined to be classified and qualified. But, oh, I cry out against it. I am I—I am powerful—but to what extent? I am I.”
“And now that I see how foolish I was in succumbing to what I thought were mental obstacles, I am determined to be as cheerful and constructive about my mental difficulties as I am going to be about this physical one. Naturally I will be a bit depressed and blue at times, and tired and uncomfortable, but there is that human principal which always finds that no matter how much is taken away, something is left to build against with.”
“…When he dies, his marks will not be written on his gravestone. If he has loved a book, been kind to someone, enjoyed a certain color in the sea—that is the thing that will show whether he has lived.”
“The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it; no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time.”
“I feel that all my life, all my pain and work has been for this one thing. All the blood spilt, the words written, the people loved, have been a work to fit me for loving…I see the power and voice in him that will shake the world alive. Even as he sees into my poems and will work with me to make me a woman poet like the world will gape at; even as he sees into my character and will tolerate no fallings away from my best right self.”
“I am so happy his book is accepted first. It will make it so much easier for me when mine is accepted—if only by the Yale Series, then by some other place. I can rejoice then, much more, knowing Ted is ahead of me. There is no question of rivalry, but only mutual joy and a sense of us doubling our price-winning and creative output.”
“…The next five months are grim ones. I always feel sorry to have the summertime change, with the dark evenings closing in in midafternoon, and will try to lay in some physical comforts this month—the best insurance against gloominess for me.”
A QUOTE FROM PLATH’S FRIEND:
“I am very proud of you, Sylvia. I love telling your story. Someone remarked to me after reading your poem in the Atlantic, ‘How intense.’ Sometime write me a little poem that isn’t intense. A lamp turned too high might shatter its chimney. Please just glow sometimes.”
QUOTES FROM PLATH’S MOM:
“She did not pretend the male was superior; she sought out those who were, and her confidence in her husband’s genius was unshakable.”
“On February 12, 1963, my sister received a cablegram from Ted, telling us ‘Sylvia died yesterday’ and giving details of the time and place of the funeral service.
Her physical energies had been depleted by illness, anxiety and overwork, and although she had for so long managed to be gallant and equal to the life-experience, some darker day than usual had temporarily made it seem impossible to pursue.”
February 20, 2022
Sylvia Plath's Letters Home has made her character both clearer and more ambiguous to me.
These letters sometimes serve as creative and emotional outlets; sometimes they are to sooth her homesickness or loneliness; other times, they are assurances to others that she is okay. Mostly, I believe, her letters are desperate; gasps for air. Her hopelessness rings loudly (and ironically) through her optimism. The water becomes more and more tumultuous but she continues to rise above to scream, "I'm fine!!!" , "I'm happy!!!" , "Oh, how wonderful my life is!!! How lucky I am!" with the little oxygen she has to spare.
She reassures herself of hope, she outlines the future because there is one!, and she ensures that everyone knows how excited the world makes her, how inspiring life is, and how much time she pours into her writing, as well as how joyful poetry makes her.
This optimism, this energy, this enthusiasm is almost confusing. After reading Plath's letters, I can't say that I understand her better. I am more doubtful of what I understand about who she was - her sentiments towards her mother, her father, her children, and husband... At the same time, this doubt makes me feel closer to understanding.
Plath is not the melancholic, nihilistic, morbid, beautifully tragic female poet she has such a reputation of being, even as claimed by people who claim to be fans of her. Despite her depression, Plath seemed to have tried so hard to "look on the bright side!" and be grateful for what she did have. She tried, like we all do, to trick herself into being happy. In fact, reading these letters, I realize what a normal girl she was, despite her flickering wisdom and distinctive ambition.
The persistence and resilience that is so evident in these letters as opposed to The Bell Jar and her poetry, is what makes it difficult to imagine Sylvia Plath succumbing to darkness and submitting herself to, for lack of a less judgmental word, weakness. Yes, it is difficult to imagine her weak. It is even more difficult to imagine the woman who wrote these letters also writing stanzas like: "Dying is an art [...] I do it exceptionally well."
Regardless, these letters demonstrate the sizzling passion and ambition in Sylvia Plath as screaming, and, yes, I do believe that Sylvia Plath really did mostly adore life and the world. There was a fear in her, of making the wrong move; a move that would stain potential forever. Despite the fate she took, her enthusiasm is a lot more notable to her character and entire being, than her depression.
I encourage anyone who likes Sylvia Plath and wants to learn and understand more about her, to read Letters Home, for it is probably the most authentic source for the truths and lies that wore for the outside world. I have yet to read her journals.
"Sometimes I try to put myself in another’s place, and I am frightened when I find I am almost succeeding. How awful to be anyone but I. I have a terrible egotism. I love my flesh, my face, my limbs with overwhelming devotion. I know that I am 'too tall' and have a fat nose, and yet I pose and prink before the mirror, seeing more and more how lovely I am… I have erected in my mind an image of myself — idealistic and beautiful. Is not that image, free from blemish, the true self — the true perfection? Am I wrong when this image insinuates itself between me and the merciless mirror."
These letters sometimes serve as creative and emotional outlets; sometimes they are to sooth her homesickness or loneliness; other times, they are assurances to others that she is okay. Mostly, I believe, her letters are desperate; gasps for air. Her hopelessness rings loudly (and ironically) through her optimism. The water becomes more and more tumultuous but she continues to rise above to scream, "I'm fine!!!" , "I'm happy!!!" , "Oh, how wonderful my life is!!! How lucky I am!" with the little oxygen she has to spare.
She reassures herself of hope, she outlines the future because there is one!, and she ensures that everyone knows how excited the world makes her, how inspiring life is, and how much time she pours into her writing, as well as how joyful poetry makes her.
This optimism, this energy, this enthusiasm is almost confusing. After reading Plath's letters, I can't say that I understand her better. I am more doubtful of what I understand about who she was - her sentiments towards her mother, her father, her children, and husband... At the same time, this doubt makes me feel closer to understanding.
Plath is not the melancholic, nihilistic, morbid, beautifully tragic female poet she has such a reputation of being, even as claimed by people who claim to be fans of her. Despite her depression, Plath seemed to have tried so hard to "look on the bright side!" and be grateful for what she did have. She tried, like we all do, to trick herself into being happy. In fact, reading these letters, I realize what a normal girl she was, despite her flickering wisdom and distinctive ambition.
The persistence and resilience that is so evident in these letters as opposed to The Bell Jar and her poetry, is what makes it difficult to imagine Sylvia Plath succumbing to darkness and submitting herself to, for lack of a less judgmental word, weakness. Yes, it is difficult to imagine her weak. It is even more difficult to imagine the woman who wrote these letters also writing stanzas like: "Dying is an art [...] I do it exceptionally well."
Regardless, these letters demonstrate the sizzling passion and ambition in Sylvia Plath as screaming, and, yes, I do believe that Sylvia Plath really did mostly adore life and the world. There was a fear in her, of making the wrong move; a move that would stain potential forever. Despite the fate she took, her enthusiasm is a lot more notable to her character and entire being, than her depression.
I encourage anyone who likes Sylvia Plath and wants to learn and understand more about her, to read Letters Home, for it is probably the most authentic source for the truths and lies that wore for the outside world. I have yet to read her journals.
"Sometimes I try to put myself in another’s place, and I am frightened when I find I am almost succeeding. How awful to be anyone but I. I have a terrible egotism. I love my flesh, my face, my limbs with overwhelming devotion. I know that I am 'too tall' and have a fat nose, and yet I pose and prink before the mirror, seeing more and more how lovely I am… I have erected in my mind an image of myself — idealistic and beautiful. Is not that image, free from blemish, the true self — the true perfection? Am I wrong when this image insinuates itself between me and the merciless mirror."
June 3, 2024
Questa nutrita raccolta di epistole è stata scritta dalla poetessa Sylvia Plath dall'inizio del suo soggiorno allo Smith College fino a poco prima della sua morte. Molte parole sono state spese su quest’artista prematuramente scomparsa. Joyce Carol Oates, per esempio, la descrive:
'Poeta del passato e l'ultima dei romantici.'
Il titolo - "Quanto lontano siamo giunti" – è tratto dall’ultima sua poesia: Edge\Limite. (potete leggerla qui: https://vademecum.altervista.org/poes...)
Il volume in lingua originale è stato revisionato dalla madre, Aurelia Schober Plath; di conseguenza non contiene l'intero scambio epistolare tra le due, poiché alcune lettere sono state omesse - come appunto le risposte della madre - altre censurate e\o soggette a tagli considerevoli. Nonostante ciò, il carteggio ci restituisce un ritratto molto umano e comunque autentico.
La corrispondenza quasi assume la connotazione di un libro di memorie che si sviluppa rispecchiando la natura frammentata delle lettere. In esso, la scrittrice statunitense condivide gli avvenimenti nodali che scandiscono le sue giornate. Ambientato nel periodo che va dal 1950 al 1963, il libro ci permette di essere testimoni di uno spaccato della sua vita.
Attraverso queste pagine, si dipana il racconto di un’esistenza segnata da una lotta interiore; una donna combattuta tra l'essenza del proprio essere e le aspettative imposte dal dovere, che prova, dunque, a conciliare il proprio io con le pretese del mondo.
Sono lettere febbrili, dove traspare tutto l’impeto che riversava in ogni cosa le piacesse e non solo. Documentano la sua sete di vita autentica e di affinità intellettuali, ma anche il conflitto con la sua parte più "oscura", quella che la rende inquieta, vulnerabile e facile preda di paturnie mentali e depressione.
Sivvy, come amava firmarsi nelle sue lettere, brama attenzioni, esprimendo senza riserve successi e fallimenti, le difficoltà a relazionarsi con gli altri, il suo sentirsi limitata nelle sue ambizioni solo perché donna. L’obiettivo rimane costante: affermarsi come scrittrice .
A riprova di ciò, ecco un breve estratto di una lettera che Olive Prouty, sua mentore e benefattrice, le scrisse il 29 marzo 1957:
Man mano mi avvicinavo al fatidico giorno – forse influenzata dalla consapevolezza di ciò che sarebbe accaduto a breve - ho percepito un cambio di registro. Le parole della donna, abilmente nascoste nel testo, si trasformavano in allusioni sempre più evidenti, trasformandosi in un crescente grido di aiuto.
L'ultima lettera, datata 4 febbraio 1963, vede Sylvia riferire della sua quotidianità, le attività che avrebbero riempito la sua giornata e il desiderio di consultare uno psicanalista per rimettere in ordine la sua vita e dedicarsi ai figli. Eppure, queste si rivelarono solo speranze vane, poiché appena sette giorni più tardi, l'11 febbraio 1963, Sylvia Plath si tolse la vita.
Non posso negare che, immergendomi nella lettura di questo libro, ho avuto la sensazione di violare ancora una volta (la prima fu quando lessi i Diari) la sua sfera privata. Eppure non provo rimpianti poiché, riflessi nelle sue parole, ho avuto l'opportunità di esplorare e comprendere aspetti profondi di me stessa.
L’epistolario di Plath è un ulteriore tassello che si allinea a ricostruire il mosaico della sua esistenza, già ampiamente rappresentato nelle sue memorie.
Per coloro che desiderano immergersi completamente nell'universo dell'autrice, consiglio la lettura di ‘Quanto lontano siamo giunti’ soltanto se accostata ai suoi Diari. Mettere a confronto le date e le impressioni corrispondenti regalerà una prospettiva più ampia e intima, rivelando dettagli e offrendo un’ulteriore chiave di lettura sulla complessità emotiva e intellettuale di questa grande donna e letterata.
Il titolo - "Quanto lontano siamo giunti" – è tratto dall’ultima sua poesia: Edge\Limite. (potete leggerla qui: https://vademecum.altervista.org/poes...)
Il volume in lingua originale è stato revisionato dalla madre, Aurelia Schober Plath; di conseguenza non contiene l'intero scambio epistolare tra le due, poiché alcune lettere sono state omesse - come appunto le risposte della madre - altre censurate e\o soggette a tagli considerevoli. Nonostante ciò, il carteggio ci restituisce un ritratto molto umano e comunque autentico.
La corrispondenza quasi assume la connotazione di un libro di memorie che si sviluppa rispecchiando la natura frammentata delle lettere. In esso, la scrittrice statunitense condivide gli avvenimenti nodali che scandiscono le sue giornate. Ambientato nel periodo che va dal 1950 al 1963, il libro ci permette di essere testimoni di uno spaccato della sua vita.
Attraverso queste pagine, si dipana il racconto di un’esistenza segnata da una lotta interiore; una donna combattuta tra l'essenza del proprio essere e le aspettative imposte dal dovere, che prova, dunque, a conciliare il proprio io con le pretese del mondo.
Sono lettere febbrili, dove traspare tutto l’impeto che riversava in ogni cosa le piacesse e non solo. Documentano la sua sete di vita autentica e di affinità intellettuali, ma anche il conflitto con la sua parte più "oscura", quella che la rende inquieta, vulnerabile e facile preda di paturnie mentali e depressione.
Sivvy, come amava firmarsi nelle sue lettere, brama attenzioni, esprimendo senza riserve successi e fallimenti, le difficoltà a relazionarsi con gli altri, il suo sentirsi limitata nelle sue ambizioni solo perché donna. L’obiettivo rimane costante: affermarsi come scrittrice .
A riprova di ciò, ecco un breve estratto di una lettera che Olive Prouty, sua mentore e benefattrice, le scrisse il 29 marzo 1957:
«[...] Gli avvenimenti emozionanti sembra si susseguano senza fine. Questo mi spaventa un po’. Sono molto fiera di te, Sylvia. Amo raccontare la tua storia. Qualcuno che ha letto la tua poesia nell’Atlantic mi ha fatto notare, “Com’è intensa”. Ogni tanto scrivimi una piccola poesia che non sia intensa. Una lanterna troppo accesa può mandare in frantumi il vetro. Sii pure incandescente, ma ti prego, solo ogni tanto...».(pag. 186)
L'incontro con Ted Hughes viene descritto come un momento rivelativo, non l’incontro agognato con la propria anima gemella, ma piuttosto come un ricongiungimento con la sua controparte maschileMan mano mi avvicinavo al fatidico giorno – forse influenzata dalla consapevolezza di ciò che sarebbe accaduto a breve - ho percepito un cambio di registro. Le parole della donna, abilmente nascoste nel testo, si trasformavano in allusioni sempre più evidenti, trasformandosi in un crescente grido di aiuto.
L'ultima lettera, datata 4 febbraio 1963, vede Sylvia riferire della sua quotidianità, le attività che avrebbero riempito la sua giornata e il desiderio di consultare uno psicanalista per rimettere in ordine la sua vita e dedicarsi ai figli. Eppure, queste si rivelarono solo speranze vane, poiché appena sette giorni più tardi, l'11 febbraio 1963, Sylvia Plath si tolse la vita.
Non posso negare che, immergendomi nella lettura di questo libro, ho avuto la sensazione di violare ancora una volta (la prima fu quando lessi i Diari) la sua sfera privata. Eppure non provo rimpianti poiché, riflessi nelle sue parole, ho avuto l'opportunità di esplorare e comprendere aspetti profondi di me stessa.
L’epistolario di Plath è un ulteriore tassello che si allinea a ricostruire il mosaico della sua esistenza, già ampiamente rappresentato nelle sue memorie.
Per coloro che desiderano immergersi completamente nell'universo dell'autrice, consiglio la lettura di ‘Quanto lontano siamo giunti’ soltanto se accostata ai suoi Diari. Mettere a confronto le date e le impressioni corrispondenti regalerà una prospettiva più ampia e intima, rivelando dettagli e offrendo un’ulteriore chiave di lettura sulla complessità emotiva e intellettuale di questa grande donna e letterata.
March 16, 2014
Sylvia Plath's Letters Home juxtaposed against her Unabridged Journals is a fascinating study. The face she showed to Mummy in her letters versus what was truly happening in her life and mind is heartbreaking and reminds me of the importance in my own heavy depression struggle of being as true as I can to all the people in my life, so that they might see me and pull me into light when I start to fail. Her letters are almost manic in their tales of the mad joy she supposedly found while away at college, and then with Ted Hughes in her marriage. They show her strength, perserverence, self-doubt, joy, and ultimately that one moment in time when it all felt too hard to carry on.
May 9, 2012
Having read these letters in such a short period of a time, I feel somewhat bereft without them. Much like Sylvia's mother must have, I've come to rely on reading a letter from Sylvia almost everyday. This is truly an amazing collection. Nearly all of the letters are written to her mother, Aurelia, who edited the volume and provides introductions to each section. I readily identified with Sylvia, especially in her early years at Smith when she attempted to excel in her classes while maintaining an active social life. Her letters are full of typical college girl complaints - boys, books, professors, etc. Of course there were many aspects which were not as typical. I was excited and fascinated by her accounts of interviews with Marianne Moore, lectures with W.H. Auden, and later, dining with T.S. Eliot and his wife. Sylvia's ambition, determination, and (more than anything) her love of life shines in these letters. When in Cambridge on a Fulbright scholarship she met Ted Hughes. These early letters describing their passionate meeting and subsequent romance/marriage are beautiful, exciting, and, because one cannot help but remember how it all ends, heartbreaking. Sylvia's attention to detail, lively descriptions of her friends, and frequent requests to "send cookies" are endearing and charming. The later section of the collection is truly heart-wrenching. After moving from London to the country with Ted, Sylvia gave birth to their second child. The joyousness in the letters following Nick's birth gives way to quiet desperation and sadness after realizing her husband was having an affair. After Ted had moved out and Sylvia became intent on owning an apartment in London (specifically W.B. Yeat's old flat), her writing becomes somewhat frenzied. She tells her mother she is writing from four AM till 8 AM "when the babies wake up." During this time, she also published her novel, "The Bell Jar," but because she knew it contained some biographical information which might have hurt her mother, she insisted that Aurelia not read it, that it was only a "pot-boiler" and that she would be coming out with a second, better novel soon. She attempts to assure her mother that she is fine, adamently refusing to 'let Ted win' and return to the States where she would be taken care of and comforted. The poems she wrote during this time would make her famous, but the intensity and furiosity with which she wrote would eventually take its toll. During one of the harshest winters in England's history, Sylvia and the children all came down with fevers. In her feverish state Sylvia continued to insist that she was alright and that she was looking forward to her brother's visit in the spring. Despite her outward determination to carry on and love for her children, the pressure evidently became too much to bear and Sylvia killed herself on February 11, 1963. A truly haunting collection of letters, I feel I have gained some profound insight into a poet I greatly admire.
August 15, 2025
Ughhhh such a masterpiece in just letters to her motherrr. My favourite were the letters while Sylvia was at Smith so deep poetic relatable. Obviously a lot tragic but such an insight on her determined optimism and strain to enjoy life!
‘If he has loved a book, been kind to someone, enjoyed a certain colour in the sea- that is the thing that will show whether he has lived’. Also I loved the handmade birthday poem for her mother.
Was so shook to read her admiration and devout love for Ted. And arguably his for her? Surely it couldn’t have all been exaggerated. Hate that it marks her life so much. Could barely read the letters after Ted left. Succhhhhh talent and success throughout her life.
‘If he has loved a book, been kind to someone, enjoyed a certain colour in the sea- that is the thing that will show whether he has lived’. Also I loved the handmade birthday poem for her mother.
Was so shook to read her admiration and devout love for Ted. And arguably his for her? Surely it couldn’t have all been exaggerated. Hate that it marks her life so much. Could barely read the letters after Ted left. Succhhhhh talent and success throughout her life.
Read
July 25, 2025The girl who wanted to be God
Mit zwei Jahren und neun Monaten beginnt Sylvia Plath laut Aurelia zu lesen (Arno Schmidt und Lovecraft nach eigenen Angaben jeweils mit drei Jahren, was ich schon immer sehr bemerkenswert fand).
Kreativität, Zeichnen, Kleider für Puppen entwerfen, Klavierspielen, Lesen und vor allem selber Schreiben begleiten SP von Kindesbeinen an. 1948, mit 16 Jahren, schreibt sie:
"I write only because
There is a voice within me
That will not be still."
Mit zwei Jahren und neun Monaten beginnt Sylvia Plath laut Aurelia zu lesen (Arno Schmidt und Lovecraft nach eigenen Angaben jeweils mit drei Jahren, was ich schon immer sehr bemerkenswert fand).
Kreativität, Zeichnen, Kleider für Puppen entwerfen, Klavierspielen, Lesen und vor allem selber Schreiben begleiten SP von Kindesbeinen an. 1948, mit 16 Jahren, schreibt sie:
"I write only because
There is a voice within me
That will not be still."
March 11, 2025
se me parte el corazón...
si os interesa la vida de Sylvia me parece que es una forma perfecta de conocerla más en profundidad. impacta mucho la imagen que nos da en su novela "la campana de cristal" sobre su madre y el contraste al leer las cartas que le enviaba en la vida real.
las reflexiones sobre su trabajo y la maternidad me parecen super interesantes y que marcan mucho la realidad de la época donde la conciliación era casi imposible.
son muy amenas y las partes que introduce su madre son bastante claras. yo lo he disfrutado mucho :)
si os interesa la vida de Sylvia me parece que es una forma perfecta de conocerla más en profundidad. impacta mucho la imagen que nos da en su novela "la campana de cristal" sobre su madre y el contraste al leer las cartas que le enviaba en la vida real.
las reflexiones sobre su trabajo y la maternidad me parecen super interesantes y que marcan mucho la realidad de la época donde la conciliación era casi imposible.
son muy amenas y las partes que introduce su madre son bastante claras. yo lo he disfrutado mucho :)
January 1, 2025
El recomano moltíssim. Una gran escriptora que aquí narra el seu dia a dia amb un anhel profund de construir un relat vital que generi sentit. S'explica a ella mateixa sota l'escolta en diferit de la mare.
És bonic com totes les cartes combinen, sempre amb una concreció absoluta, la quotidianitat de les coses (quant li paguen per a un poema o quines tasques de la llar li queden pendents) amb la intimitat. M'ha fet mal veure com fins i tot a les últimes cartes hi ha una constant i ansiosa projecció de futur que xoca amb les poques pàgines de vida que li queden.
És bonic com totes les cartes combinen, sempre amb una concreció absoluta, la quotidianitat de les coses (quant li paguen per a un poema o quines tasques de la llar li queden pendents) amb la intimitat. M'ha fet mal veure com fins i tot a les últimes cartes hi ha una constant i ansiosa projecció de futur que xoca amb les poques pàgines de vida que li queden.
February 17, 2022
Arriba un punt en el qual ja no saps si et sents més en el paper de la mare o directament t'has convertit en la Plath i estàs escrivint amb ella. Això sí, m'ha costat tant llegir les últimes cartes tenint en compte que tots sabem quin era el final.
July 20, 2011
Was very interesting to see what Sylvia had to say. I definitely enjoyed it.
May 16, 2020
These letters broke my heart...
October 30, 2022
Es un excelente libro para conocer mejor a Sylvia.
Read
June 27, 2022"Wzdrygam się na myśl, ilu mężczyzn byłoby gotowych zadowolić się małą cząstką mnie, biorąc ją za całość."
"Chciałabym mieć dość siły na to, by nie zasklepić się w bezpiecznym cieple utrwalonych sytuacji, tylko wciąż i wciąż na nowo penetrować świat ruchu i cierpienia, którego prawdziwymi książkami są ludzkie dusze."
"Chciałabym mieć dość siły na to, by nie zasklepić się w bezpiecznym cieple utrwalonych sytuacji, tylko wciąż i wciąż na nowo penetrować świat ruchu i cierpienia, którego prawdziwymi książkami są ludzkie dusze."
July 15, 2021
Un nuovo specchio della Plath dal consolidamento della carriera artistica alle problematiche di distruzione, attraverso le carte donate alla madre nel corso degli anni.
October 22, 2025
my baby sylvia🥺
January 23, 2023
«If I start running now, I will never stop. (...) I must make a life all my own as fast as I can ... the flesh has dropped from my bones. But I am a fighter.»
I never quite know what to write when I read something like this, knowing how she ended up. I'd highlight the omnipresent optimism in almost all the letters, underneath which seems to exist a notable sadness and need for self-reassurance. Some letters —especially those of 1962 and 1963— are heartbreaking, not so much because of their content but because of the cry for help that can be sensed in every line, always in a veiled form. I am not (yet) familiar with Sylvia's work, but I loved the way she wrote these letters; the subtle descriptions of moments, places, people. She was indeed a fighter.
I never quite know what to write when I read something like this, knowing how she ended up. I'd highlight the omnipresent optimism in almost all the letters, underneath which seems to exist a notable sadness and need for self-reassurance. Some letters —especially those of 1962 and 1963— are heartbreaking, not so much because of their content but because of the cry for help that can be sensed in every line, always in a veiled form. I am not (yet) familiar with Sylvia's work, but I loved the way she wrote these letters; the subtle descriptions of moments, places, people. She was indeed a fighter.
November 7, 2016
I finished about three quarters of these letters. While many people on here felt these letters were more personal and enjoyable than her diary entries, I have to disagree. I actually got a tad bored with them. What I did find interesting was to read them along with the diary entries. There is such a discrepancy between private Sylvia and the way she chose to present herself to the world.
These letters do show that she was an extremely hard-working, perfectionistic girl who genuinely tried to be happy. But I have no desire to finish this book at this point in time. Maybe in the future I'll pick it up again.
These letters do show that she was an extremely hard-working, perfectionistic girl who genuinely tried to be happy. But I have no desire to finish this book at this point in time. Maybe in the future I'll pick it up again.
November 8, 2023
Me ha gustado ver la evolución de Sylvia desde su época de estudiante hasta 1963. Me parece, sencillamente, una escritora brillante, con una personalidad en la que me veo terriblemente reflejada aunque no comparta alguno de sus rasgos. Sus cartas finales (1963) me han parecido desalentadoras y sumamente tristes. Estas, dejan ver el gran sufrimiento que las mujeres de la época soportaban (sobre todo si se divorciaban) por llevar adelante a sus hijos y su carrera profesional.
January 19, 2024
delicada, bonica, profunda. una declaració d’amor a la mare i un crit d’ajuda
June 30, 2025
Hará año y medio que me estrené con Sylvia Plath con La campana de cristal (ya dije entonces que no me había animado antes porque en mi cabeza ella y Virginia Woolf eran un poco la misma cosa, y esta es un no para mí) y me gustó tanto, tanto y me dio tantísima pena que no hubiese más novelas que después seguí leyendo todo lo que encontré: una recopilación de relatos y estas cartas (me quedan solo los diarios, creo, porque poesía no leo).
Me animé, también, con este volumen de más de 600 páginas, para bajar un poco el ritmo infernal de lectura al que me llevan los libros breves, y qué descanso poder pararme en él más de una semana durante la que acompañé a la autora desde los 18 años en que se fue a la universidad hasta su prematura muerte a los 30.
El libro ha gustado mucho, pero también me ha entristecido muchísimo: Sylvia Plath alterna, y relata, periodos extraordinariamente luminosos con otros de profunda oscuridad: los primeros me apenaban por lo que sabía que se avecinaba, los segundos por sí mismos.
Me sorprendió que predominara el optimismo: quizás sea el sesgo de las cartas, por no querer preocupar a sus seres queridos (otro motivo para leer los diarios, que presupongo más fieles a la realidad), quizás simplemente en los peores momentos no tenía ni fuerzas para escribir, pero en general se mostraba animada, con ganas de vivir, de aprender, de escribir, de cultivar, de estímulos intelectuales, de conocer gente y llena de amor por su marido (hasta el abandono), y por sus hijos y el resto de su familia (hasta el final).
Pero, con todo, lo que de verdad me trastornó fue descubrir que su única novela, que fue mi libro preferido de cuantos leí en 2023, fue escrita, “como ejercicio y para llenar el bolsillo”, bajo seudónimo, y no era nada apreciada por la autora (se desprende incluso del texto cierta vergüenza). Desgraciadamente, nunca podremos leer la segunda ni la tercera, que no terminó y que parece que sí valoraba.
Me animé, también, con este volumen de más de 600 páginas, para bajar un poco el ritmo infernal de lectura al que me llevan los libros breves, y qué descanso poder pararme en él más de una semana durante la que acompañé a la autora desde los 18 años en que se fue a la universidad hasta su prematura muerte a los 30.
El libro ha gustado mucho, pero también me ha entristecido muchísimo: Sylvia Plath alterna, y relata, periodos extraordinariamente luminosos con otros de profunda oscuridad: los primeros me apenaban por lo que sabía que se avecinaba, los segundos por sí mismos.
Me sorprendió que predominara el optimismo: quizás sea el sesgo de las cartas, por no querer preocupar a sus seres queridos (otro motivo para leer los diarios, que presupongo más fieles a la realidad), quizás simplemente en los peores momentos no tenía ni fuerzas para escribir, pero en general se mostraba animada, con ganas de vivir, de aprender, de escribir, de cultivar, de estímulos intelectuales, de conocer gente y llena de amor por su marido (hasta el abandono), y por sus hijos y el resto de su familia (hasta el final).
Pero, con todo, lo que de verdad me trastornó fue descubrir que su única novela, que fue mi libro preferido de cuantos leí en 2023, fue escrita, “como ejercicio y para llenar el bolsillo”, bajo seudónimo, y no era nada apreciada por la autora (se desprende incluso del texto cierta vergüenza). Desgraciadamente, nunca podremos leer la segunda ni la tercera, que no terminó y que parece que sí valoraba.
December 9, 2025
es, probablemente, el material más completo que existe sobre la vida de Sylvia. cubre todo: desde su primer año en la universidad hasta diez días antes de su suicidio. Con algunas interrupciones, (cada vez que Sylvia estaba cerca de su madre) pero justamente ahí es donde Aurelia interviene: a lo largo del libro va añadiendo notas, aclaraciones y contextos cortitos que ayudan muchísimo a entender qué estaba pasando Sylvia en cada momento y el por qué de esas cartas.
la traducción es muy buena, aunque se nota que las cartas están MUY resumidas (viendo a su vez las completas en la edición de Tres Hermanas) y lo entiendo: aun así el libro es enorme, y sin esos recortes sería casi inabarcable. pero aun resumidas, las cartas tienen una fuerza emocional increíble.
lo que más recomiendo es leer este libro a la par de Cartas (ed. Tres Hermanas) y de sus diarios. Leer todo al mismo tiempo es intoxicante, en el mejor sentido. Te sumergís por completo en su vida y entendés cada etapa, cada síntoma, cada silencio. Cuando no hay cartas, está el diario. Cuando abandona el diario, aparecen las cartas. todo encaja. todo dialoga.
Y los aportes de Aurelia (!!!) están escritos con una valentía que impresiona. me dejó al borde del llanto muchisimas veces. porque es una madre intentando reconstruir, comprender, justificar, explicarse a sí misma lo que pasó. No desde la culpa, sino desde el amor y la necesidad de hacer memoria.
En resumen es un libro que duele, pero que también te acompaña. Y que, leído junto a los otros dos, arma el retrato más nítido (y más humano) de Sylvia.
la traducción es muy buena, aunque se nota que las cartas están MUY resumidas (viendo a su vez las completas en la edición de Tres Hermanas) y lo entiendo: aun así el libro es enorme, y sin esos recortes sería casi inabarcable. pero aun resumidas, las cartas tienen una fuerza emocional increíble.
lo que más recomiendo es leer este libro a la par de Cartas (ed. Tres Hermanas) y de sus diarios. Leer todo al mismo tiempo es intoxicante, en el mejor sentido. Te sumergís por completo en su vida y entendés cada etapa, cada síntoma, cada silencio. Cuando no hay cartas, está el diario. Cuando abandona el diario, aparecen las cartas. todo encaja. todo dialoga.
Y los aportes de Aurelia (!!!) están escritos con una valentía que impresiona. me dejó al borde del llanto muchisimas veces. porque es una madre intentando reconstruir, comprender, justificar, explicarse a sí misma lo que pasó. No desde la culpa, sino desde el amor y la necesidad de hacer memoria.
En resumen es un libro que duele, pero que también te acompaña. Y que, leído junto a los otros dos, arma el retrato más nítido (y más humano) de Sylvia.
April 12, 2018
Anche se in questa raccolta di lettere è presente solo un terzo della corrispondenza integrale tra Aurelia Schober e sua figlia, Sylvia Plath, non si può non percepirne, tra le righe, l'evoluzione stilistica. Quell'evoluzione che l'ha resa una delle poetesse più affermate del novecento e l'ha portata al successo solo dopo la sua tragica morte, nel febbraio del 1963.
Una breve esistenza vissuta a pieno tra i brillanti studi universitari allo Smith College, il suo sogno di un "matrimonio letterario" con il poeta inglese Ted Hughes, il successivo trasferimento in Inghilterra, la nascita dei piccoli Frieda e Nicholas, il divorzio e la sua nuova vita da madre single, nella casa londinese precedentemente appartenuta al poeta e drammaturgo irlandese William Butler Yeats.
Un libro fondamentale per gli appassionati della Plath, da aggiungere senza esitazioni alle vostre letture, prima del suo unico romanzo "La campana di vetro" e dopo le varie raccolte di poesie.
Le "Lettere alla madre" svelano un lato della Plath che rimane nascosto nei "Diari" e nel suo romanzo autobiografico, lasciando trasparire la caparbietà, la volontà e la determinazione di riuscire ad affermarsi nel mondo letterario.
Una breve esistenza vissuta a pieno tra i brillanti studi universitari allo Smith College, il suo sogno di un "matrimonio letterario" con il poeta inglese Ted Hughes, il successivo trasferimento in Inghilterra, la nascita dei piccoli Frieda e Nicholas, il divorzio e la sua nuova vita da madre single, nella casa londinese precedentemente appartenuta al poeta e drammaturgo irlandese William Butler Yeats.
Un libro fondamentale per gli appassionati della Plath, da aggiungere senza esitazioni alle vostre letture, prima del suo unico romanzo "La campana di vetro" e dopo le varie raccolte di poesie.
Le "Lettere alla madre" svelano un lato della Plath che rimane nascosto nei "Diari" e nel suo romanzo autobiografico, lasciando trasparire la caparbietà, la volontà e la determinazione di riuscire ad affermarsi nel mondo letterario.
February 8, 2025
3,5/5. Me explico.
Es un libro precioso y muy bien escrito. No solo por Sylvia, quien tenía talento desde adolescente, sino también por la madre, quién es la conductora de todas las páginas.
Ahora bien... Son, en efecto, cartas a su madre. Y a una madre no le cuentas toda la verdad. Eso hace que las más de 600 páginas resulten repetitivas y superficiales. Todas las cartas parecen la misma, ya que son actualizaciones sencillas de "todo bien, preocupada por los estudios/trabajo". Pero no desarrolla nada y cualquier evento importante en su vida, lo menciona de pasada.
Me ha gustado mucho leerlo, sobre todo porque al haber leído sus obras publicadas, le añade mucho contexto, además de lo emocionante que es poder "ver" crecer a alguien al ser en formato casi diario. Pero el contenido sigue siendo pobre y monotemático
Es un libro precioso y muy bien escrito. No solo por Sylvia, quien tenía talento desde adolescente, sino también por la madre, quién es la conductora de todas las páginas.
Ahora bien... Son, en efecto, cartas a su madre. Y a una madre no le cuentas toda la verdad. Eso hace que las más de 600 páginas resulten repetitivas y superficiales. Todas las cartas parecen la misma, ya que son actualizaciones sencillas de "todo bien, preocupada por los estudios/trabajo". Pero no desarrolla nada y cualquier evento importante en su vida, lo menciona de pasada.
Me ha gustado mucho leerlo, sobre todo porque al haber leído sus obras publicadas, le añade mucho contexto, además de lo emocionante que es poder "ver" crecer a alguien al ser en formato casi diario. Pero el contenido sigue siendo pobre y monotemático
June 7, 2020
I have mixed feelings about this book. It’s hard to read something when you know how it ends. I felt like this book offered more insight into who Sylvia Plath was but at the same time so much seems to be missing. I don’t know if letters were edited out or Sylvia simply stopped writing as her life spiraled out of control, but the ending and its build up seemed to be missing parts of the story.
March 15, 2022
Esto se siente como un rincón muy personal de Sylvia. El libro en general me gustó mucho pero en muchas ocasiones se me hizo infinito porque las cartas eran repetitivas o de entrada no me importaban mucho.
“Toda mi vida me dedicaré a recitar poemas y a amar a las personas y a darles lo mejor de mí misma”. Lo hizo, lo hizooo🖋❤️
“Toda mi vida me dedicaré a recitar poemas y a amar a las personas y a darles lo mejor de mí misma”. Lo hizo, lo hizooo🖋❤️
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