Quote:
Originally Posted by robustpuppy
(So anyway, if you've ever wondered about my particular brand of neurosis, it's because my father was incapable of loving me! This is why I would cry in the shower whenever TM flamed me.)
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Sylvia Plath's
Daddy for you:
...
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
I always loved that one. "The voices just can't worm through." That's great. Of course, I have father issues, too. And Ted Hughes is a rotten schmuck and a mediocre poet.
I was chatting with someone else recently about associating literary works with people and times, and I realized that I can more easily remember the literary associations of my shorter relationships than the actual relationships themselves (yes, Proust evokes a young woman and a moment in time for me). It's sort of the definition of a real relationship for me - when it is no longer a poetic moment.
