The Unabridged Journals of by Sylvia Plath EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Sylvia Plath
- ISBN: 978-0385720250
- Language: English
- Genre: Literary Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 3.6 MB
- Page: 732
- Price: Free
Lookout Farm
July 1950. I may never be happy, but tonight I am
content. Nothing more than an empty house, the warm
hazy weariness from a day spent setting strawberry
runners in the sun, a glass of cool sweet milk, and a
shallow dish of blueberries bathed in cream. Now I
know how people can live without books, without
college. When one is so tired at the end of a day one
must sleep, and at the next dawn there are more
strawberry runners to set, and so one goes on living,
near the earth. At times like this I’d call myself a fool to
ask for more.…
Ilo asked me today in the strawberry eld, “Do you like
the Renaissance painters? Raphael and Michelangelo? I
copied some of Michelangelo once. Ant what do you
think of Picasso?… These painters who make a circle
and a little board going down for a leg?” We worked
side by side in the rows, and he would be quiet for a
while, then suddenly burst out with conversation,
speaking with his thick German accent. He straightened
up, his tan, intelligent face crinkling up with laughter.
His chunky, muscular body was bronzed, and his blond
hair tucked up under a white handkerchief around his
head. He said, “You like Frank Sinatra? So sendimendal,
so romandic, so moonlight night, ja?”
A sudden slant of bluish light across the oor of a
vacant room. And I knew it was not the streetlight, but
the moon. What is more wonderful than to be a virgin,
clean and sound and young, on such a night?… (Being
raped.)*
Tonight was awful. It was the combination of
everything. Of the play Good-bye My Fancy, of wanting,
in a juvenile way, to be, like the heroine, a reporter in
the trenches, to be loved by a man who admired me,
who understood me as much as I understood myself.
And then there was Jack, who tried so hard to be nice,
who was hurt when I said all he wanted was to make
out. There was the dinner at the country club, the
auence of money everywhere. And then there was the
record … the one so good for dancing. I forgot that it
was the one until Louie Armstrong began to sing in a
voice husky with regret [“I Can’t Get Started”] … Jack
said: “Ever heard it before?” so I smiled. “Oh, yes.”
It
was (with) Bob [another boyfriend]. That settled things
for me … a crazy record, and it was our long talks, his
listening and understanding. And I knew I loved him.
Today is the rst of August. It is hot, steamy and wet. It
is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I
remember what it said on one rejection slip: After a
heavy rainfall, poems titled “Rain” pour in from across
the nation.
With me, the present is forever, and forever is always
shifting, owing, melting. This second is life. And when
it is gone, it is dead. But you can’t start over with each
new second, you have to judge by what is dead. It’s like
quicksand … hopeless from the start. A story, a picture,
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