What to tell you? (Also, questions.)

Making bookmarks out of an old calendar

Making bookmarks out of an old calendar


My heart feels so full tonight. My chest aches, but it’s a good ache. I’m listening to Schubert’s Ständchen and it’s like the universe has gathered inside my body. Have you ever felt that way about music?

I recently shared with my friend K. an episode of BBC Radio 4’s Afternoon Play, which focused on some of Ted Hughes’ letters. They were read beautifully by Richard Armitage. She loved Sylvia Plath (as I did), and we talked about how conflicted we were after this reading. I don’t know if it’s Armitage’s voice, the depth of feeling there, the sincerity, or Hughes’ words—they were especially powerful and made me rethink my opinion of him.

I’m used to vilifying him. Now I think am in a difficult place, as a reader. Did you ever change your mind about something you were so sure of?

I particularly liked this poem he wrote, Song, from his book, Crow:

The difficult stars swam for eyes in your face;
You stood, and your shadow was my place

I am listening now to Arvo Pärt’s Summa for Strings, and I imagine myself standing under a vast sky, looking at the northern lights.

Was there ever a time in your life that you felt so small and insignificant?

There has been some debate about releasing more of Plath’s works to a wider audience versus keeping it for the sake of privacy. I found this interesting:

All of this comes back to a bigger argument: who a writer’s work belongs to, their family or the public.

What do you think of that statement?

I have taken an old calendar in my file cabinet, and I’m making new bookmarks for myself. See: a flower blooming.

Good night, M.


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