essays

Ted Hughes to Sylvia Plath

POSTED IN essays May 1, 2012

“Last Letter” by Ted Hughes

What happened that night? Your final night.
Double, treble exposure
Over everything. Late afternoon, Friday,
My last sight of you alive.
Burning your letter to me, in the ashtray,
With that strange smile. Had I bungled your plan?
Had it surprised me sooner than you purposed?
Had I rushed it back to you too promptly?
One hour later—-you would have been gone
Where I could not have traced you.
I would have turned from your locked red door
That nobody would open
Still holding your letter,
A thunderbolt that could not earth itself.
That would have been electric shock treatment
For me.
Repeated over and over, all weekend,
As often as I read it, or thought of it.
That would have remade my brains, and my life.
The treatment that you planned needed some time.
I cannot imagine
How I would have got through that weekend.
I cannot imagine. Had you plotted it all?

Your note reached me too soon—-that same day,
Friday afternoon, posted in the morning.
The prevalent devils expedited it.
That was one more straw of ill-luck
Drawn against you by the Post-Office
And added to your load. I moved fast,
Through the snow-blue, February, London twilight.
Wept with relief when you opened the door.
A huddle of riddles in solution. Precocious tears
That failed to interpret to me, failed to divulge
Their real import. But what did you say
Over the smoking shards of that letter
So carefully annihilated, so calmly,
That let me release you, and leave you
To blow its ashes off your plan—-off the ashtray
Against which you would lean for me to read
The Doctor’s phone-number.
My escape
Had become such a hunted thing
Sleepless, hopeless, all its dreams exhausted,
Only wanting to be recaptured, only
Wanting to drop, out of its vacuum.
Two days of dangling nothing. Two days gratis.
Two days in no calendar, but stolen
From no world,
Beyond actuality, feeling, or name.

My love-life grabbed it. My numbed love-life
With its two mad needles,
Embroidering their rose, piercing and tugging
At their tapestry, their bloody tattoo
Somewhere behind my navel,
Treading that morass of emblazon,
Two mad needles, criss-crossing their stitches,
Selecting among my nerves
For their colours, refashioning me
Inside my own skin, each refashioning the other
With their self-caricatures,

Their obsessed in and out. Two women
Each with her needle.

That night
My dellarobbia Susan. I moved
With the circumspection
Of a flame in a fuse. My whole fury
Was an abandoned effort to blow up
The old globe where shadows bent over
My telltale track of ashes. I raced
From and from, face backwards, a film reversed,
Towards what? We went to Rugby St
Where you and I began.
Why did we go there? Of all places
Why did we go there? Perversity
In the artistry of our fate
Adjusted its refinements for you, for me
And for Susan. Solitaire
Played by the Minotaur of that maze
Even included Helen, in the ground-floor flat.
You had noted her—-a girl for a story.
You never met her. Few ever met her,
Except across the ears and raving mask
Of her Alsatian. You had not even glimpsed her.
You had only recoiled
When her demented animal crashed its weight
Against her door, as we slipped through the hallway;
And heard it choking on infinite German hatred.

That Sunday night she eased her door open
Its few permitted inches.
Susan greeted the black eyes, the unhappy
Overweight, lovely face, that peeped out
Across the little chain. The door closed.
We heard her consoling her jailor
Inside her cell, its kennel, where, days later,
She gassed her ferocious kupo, and herself.

Susan and I spent that night
In our wedding bed. I had not seen it
Since we lay there on our wedding day.
I did not take her back to my own bed.
It had occurred to me, your weekend over,
You might appear—-a surprise visitation.
Did you appear, to tap at my dark window?
So I stayed with Susan, hiding from you,
In our own wedding bed—-the same from which
Within three years she would be taken to die
In that same hospital where, within twelve hours,
I would find you dead.
Monday morning
I drove her to work, in the City,
Then parked my van North of Euston Road
And returned to where my telephone waited.

What happened that night, inside your hours,
Is as unknown as if it never happened.
What accumulation of your whole life,
Like effort unconscious, like birth
Pushing through the membrane of each slow second
Into the next, happened
Only as if it could not happen,
As if it was not happening. How often
Did the phone ring there in my empty room,
You hearing the ring in your receiver—-
At both ends the fading memory
Of a telephone ringing, in a brain
As if already dead. I count
How often you walked to the phone-booth
At the bottom of St George’s terrace.
You are there whenever I look, just turning
Out of Fitzroy Road, crossing over
Between the heaped up banks of dirty sugar.
In your long black coat,
With your plait coiled up at the back of your hair
You walk unable to move, or wake, and are
Already nobody walking
Walking by the railings under Primrose Hill
Towards the phone booth that can never be reached.
Before midnight. After midnight. Again.
Again. Again. And, near dawn, again.

At what position of the hands on my watch-face
Did your last attempt,
Already deeply past
My being able to hear it, shake the pillow
Of that empty bed? A last time
Lightly touch at my books, and my papers?
By the time I got there my phone was asleep.
The pillow innocent. My room slept,
Already filled with the snowlit morning light.
I lit my fire. I had got out my papers.
And I had started to write when the telephone
Jerked awake, in a jabbering alarm,
Remembering everything. It recovered in my hand.
Then a voice like a selected weapon
Or a measured injection,
Coolly delivered its four words
Deep into my ear: ‘Your wife is dead.’

Anne Boleyn

POSTED IN essays April 30, 2012

“Good Christian people, I am come hither to die, according to the law, for by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it. I come here only to die, and thus to yield myself humbly to the will of the King, my lord. And if, in my life, I did ever offend the King’s Grace, surely with my death I do now atone. I come hither to accuse no man, nor to speak anything of that whereof I am accused, as I know full well that aught I say in my defence doth not appertain to you. I pray and beseech you all, good friends, to pray for the life of the King, my sovereign lord and yours, who is one of the best princes on the face of the earth, who has always treated me so well that better could not be, wherefore I submit to death with good will, humbly asking pardon of all the world. If any person will meddle with my cause, I require them to judge the best. Thus I take my leave of the world, and of you, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me. Oh Lord, have mercy on me! To God I commend my soul.” (Weir 2009, pg. 266 – 267)

Anne Boleyn was the second of Henry’s six wives. She was Queen of England from 1533 until 1536. She was one of the first non-royal women to become a Queen of England, which caused quite a stir in those times. She was also the mother of Elizabeth I, one of the greatest monarchs in the history of England and of the world itself.

Anne Boleyn was in her early to mid-twenties when she attracted King Henry’s attention, in about the year 1525. Her exact age at the time cannot be pinpointed, as the historical records vary as to Anne’s date of birth. It could have been as early as 1500, or as late as 1506. At the time he noticed Anne, Henry had been married to Catherine of Aragon for 16 years.

Anne was a glamorous, exotic young woman of the minor nobility. She had beautiful dark eyes, long black hair, and a slender figure. She was known for her intelligence, lively personality, and keen wit. She was a skilled musician and dancer, and attracted the attention of many men at Court.

Anne’s particular brand of glamour and appeal was different from that of the prevailing standard of female beauty of the times. Light hair, fair and rosy skin, and a womanly figure were among the feminine ideals held in high esteem in Tudor England. The young Catherine of Aragon would have fit this mold perfectly. By contrast, Anne Boleyn was dark, slender and ivory-skinned. She created her own special style by adopting French fashions and customs that she had learned as a lady-in-waiting to Henry’s sister Mary, when Mary was (briefly) the Queen of France.

Henry fell passionately in love with Anne Boleyn, and expected her to become his mistress. Anne refused, which started a chain of events which ended in England’s break with the Roman Catholic Church.

Throughout history, people have wondered how and why Anne held out for so many years before surrendering to Henry. It must have been a challenge, as Henry was King of England, and a very persuasive suitor. Other women had succumbed to his charm and physical attraction. What made Anne behave so differently?

There are several possible explanations. One involves Anne’s love for Henry Percy, a young man she met right around the time King Henry noticed her. Henry Percy was the son of the powerful Duke of Northumberland. Young Percy returned Anne’s affections, and the two planned to marry, provided they could obtain their parents’ permission. Henry Percy was a member of Cardinal Wolsey’s staff, and saw Anne as often as possible when they were both at Court.

When Cardinal Wolsey found out about Anne and Henry Percy’s plans, he refused to let them marry. Lord Northumberland, Percy’s father, also forbade the match, claiming that he had planned to marry his son to the daughter of another high-ranking family. Both Cardinal Wolsey and Lord Northumberland felt that the Boleyns were not prestigious enough to be joined to the Percy family in marriage. It is not certain whether King Henry was behind this, or whether Cardinal Wolsey acted on his own. In any event, the marriage request was denied.

Anne Boleyn and Henry Percy were devastated when they heard the news. Percy was called back home and forced to marry the woman chosen by his family. Anne became bitter and angry, possibly for all her life, that she was denied her true love in marriage. It is not unlikely that she resented King Henry for his role in this, and held it against him for many years.

Another factor in Anne’s refusal to become Henry’s mistress was her sister Mary’s involvement with the King. Anne Boleyn’s older sister Mary had been King Henry’s mistress. Henry ended the affair when Mary became pregnant. Henry arranged for Mary to marry a member of the lesser nobility, and did not acknowledge the child. All in all, Mary did not benefit noticeably from her relationship with Henry VIII. This undoubtedly was a factor in Anne’s decision to withhold her favors from the King.

Henry was determined to divorce Catherine and marry Anne. Catherine refused to give him a divorce, and the Catholic Church would not support Henry’s position. Several frustrating years passed, with Anne clamoring to be Queen, and Henry trying to make it happen.

In 1532, Anne decided she had best become pregnant as soon as possible before Henry lost interest. She was soon was with child, and Henry secretly married her in January of 1533. Shortly thereafter, with the help of Parliament and various advisors, Henry severed ties with the Pope, and declared himself Supreme Head of the Church of England. He then divorced Catherine, and forced her to live in exile from Court.

In May of 1533, Anne was crowned Queen of England in a grand, elaborate coronation ceremony. It was supposed to be a festive occasion, but Anne was unpopular with the English people, and their sullenness dampened the event. Many resented Anne for displacing Queen Catherine, who was dearly loved by her subjects. Still in all, Anne’s dream of becoming Queen had come true. She was now the most powerful woman in England.

After achieving their goals, Henry and Anne expected to be happy. Unfortunately, this did not happen. They were both tired and edgy from the stresses of the past several years. In addition, Henry started losing interest in Anne shortly after he fully attained her favors. Henry also finally realized how much his marriage to Anne had cost him. A number of good people, including friends and associates of Henry’s, had lost their lives due to loyalty and treason issues stemming from the English church’s break from Rome.

There was still a son for Henry to look forward to. Henry fully expected Anne to deliver a Prince as she had always promised. In the fall of 1533, Anne’s long-awaited child was born. To Henry’s disappointment, it was a girl. No one knew then that the Princess Elizabeth would turn out to be one of the greatest English monarchs of all time.

Anne had several more miscarriages after Elizabeth’s birth. She and Henry quarreled more, and Anne’s sharp temper took hold, especially when Henry became interested in other woman. After less than three years of marriage to Anne, Henry fell in love with a young gentlewoman named Jane Seymour. Jane Seymour was very different from Anne Boleyn. Unlike the dazzling, dramatic Anne, Jane was gentle, placid, quiet, and very pale. Henry saw her as a source of peace and comfort, and a refuge from life with the turbulent Anne.

After a final unsuccessful pregnancy, Henry decided he had had enough of Anne. He decided to replace her with Jane Seymour. Because Henry would lose face if he divorced Anne after all he went through to marry her, his advisors conspired some false adultery charges against her. To make the charges look outrageous, Anne was accused of adultery with five different men, including her own brother George. George’s wife, the Lady Rochford, testified that her husband had been in intimate contact with Anne. George and Jane’s marriage had been arranged, and was not a happy union. Jane Rochford hated both her husband and her sister-in-law, and envied their family closeness. Lady Rochford’s words, although lies, carried a lot of weight.

Although Anne was truly innocent of all charges, she was found guilty of treason by a court of English statesmen who feared the King. Her own father and uncle voted to condemn her. Because treason was a capital crime, Anne was sentenced to death, and executed in May of 1536. Many were outraged at this miscarriage of justice, even those who had disliked Anne Boleyn in the beginning. As usual, Henry’s advisors were blamed, and Henry kept his popularity among his English subjects. A few weeks after Anne’s death, Henry married Jane Seymour in a quiet ceremony.

Anne Boleyn is remembered for her brilliance, glamour, elegance, and for the incredible hold she held on King Henry for such a long time. Many do not realize that Anne Boleyn was the mother of Elizabeth I, who inherited Anne’s facial features and various facets of her personality. Anne would have been very proud of her daughter. ( Alison Weir)

King Henry VIII to Anne Boleyn

POSTED IN essays April 30, 2012


		These famous love letters from King Henry VIII to Anne Boleyn are undated. They were found in the Vatican Library, possibly stolen from Anne and sent to the papacy during Henry VIII’s struggle for an annulment of his marriage to Katharine of Aragon. Though Henry argued for an annulment on the basis of his conscience (he stated that the marriage was in direct contradiction to the Bible), most people believed he simply wanted to marry Anne Boleyn. Anne’s replies to these letters are lost. The letters were written in French. My mistress and friend: I and my heart put ourselves in your hands, begging you to have them suitors for your good favour, and that your affection for them should not grow less through absence. For it would be a great pity to increase their sorrow since absence does it sufficiently, and more than ever I could have thought possible reminding us of a point in astronomy, which is, that the longer the days are the farther off is the sun, and yet the more fierce. So it is with our love, for by absence we are parted, yet nevertheless it keeps its fervour, at least on my side, and I hope on yours also: assuring you that on my side the ennui of absence is already too much for me: and when I think of the increase of what I must needs suffer it would be well nigh unbearable for me were it not for the firm hope I have and as I cannot be with you in person, I am sending you the nearest possible thing to that, namely, my picture set in a bracelet, with the whole device which you already know. Wishing myself in their place when it shall please you. This by the hand of Your loyal servant and friend H. Rex No more to you at this present mine own darling for lack of time but that I would you were in my arms or I in yours for I think it long since I kissed you. Written after the killing of an hart at a xj. of the clock minding with God’s grace tomorrow mightily timely to kill another: by the hand of him which I trust shortly shall be yours. Henry R. Mine own sweetheart, these shall be to advertise you of the great loneliness that I find here since your departing, for I ensure you methinketh the time longer since your departing now last than I was wont to do a whole fortnight: I think your kindness and my fervents of love causeth it, for otherwise I would not have thought it possible that for so little a while it should have grieved me, but now that I am coming toward you methinketh my pains been half released…. Wishing myself (specially an evening) in my sweetheart’s arms, whose pretty dukkys I trust shortly to kiss. Written with the hand of him that was, is, and shall be yours by his will. H.R.

Catherine of Aragon to Henry VIII

POSTED IN essays April 30, 2012

The Queen of England and mother to Queen Mary, Catherine of Aragon (1485 – 1536) is best known as the first of the many wives of Henry VIII. Though he divorced her in 1533, Catherine remained devoted to Henry until her death in 1536, as this letter shows.

1535

My Lord and Dear Husband,

I commend me unto you. The hour of my death draweth fast on, and my case being such, the tender love I owe you forceth me, with a few words, to put you in remembrance of the health and safeguard of your soul, which you ought to prefer before all worldly matters, and before the care and tendering of your own body, for the which you have cast me into many miseries and yourself into many cares.

For my part I do pardon you all, yea, I do wish and devoutly pray God that He will also pardon you.

For the rest I commend unto you Mary, our daughter, beseeching you to be a good father unto her, as I heretofore desired. I entreat you also, on behalf of my maids, to give them marriage-portions, which is not much, they being but three. For all my other servants, I solicit a year’s pay more than their due, lest they should be unprovided for.

Lastly, do I vow, that mine eyes desire you above all things.

Ludwig van Beethoven

POSTED IN essays April 30, 2012

IMMORTAL BELOVED

The First Letter
July 6, in the morning
My angel, my all, my very self – Only a few words today and at that with pencil (with yours) – Not till tomorrow will my lodgings be definitely determined upon – what a useless waste of time – Why this deep sorrow when necessity speaks – can our love endure except through sacrifices, through not demanding everything from one another; can you change the fact that you are not wholly mine, I not wholly thine – Oh God, look out into the beauties of nature and comfort your heart with that which must be – Love demands everything and that very justly – thus it is to me with you, and to your with me. But you forget so easily that I must live for me and for you; if we were wholly united you would feel the pain of it as little as I – My journey was a fearful one; I did not reach here until 4 o’clock yesterday morning. Lacking horses the post-coach chose another route, but what an awful one; at the stage before the last I was warned not to travel at night; I was made fearful of a forest, but that only made me the more eager – and I was wrong. The coach must needs break down on the wretched road, a bottomless mud road. Without such postilions as I had with me I should have remained stuck in the road. Esterhazy, traveling the usual road here, had the same fate with eight horses that I had with four – Yet I got some pleasure out of it, as I always do when I successfully overcome difficulties – Now a quick change to things internal from things external. We shall surely see each other soon; moreover, today I cannot share with you the thoughts I have had during these last few days touching my own life – If our hearts were always close together, I would have none of these. My heart is full of so many things to say to you – ah – there are moments when I feel that speech amounts to nothing at all – Cheer up – remain my true, my only treasure, my all as I am yours. The gods must send us the rest, what for us must and shall be –
Your faithful LUDWIG.

The Second Letter
Evening, Monday, July 6
You are suffering, my dearest creature – only now have I learned that letters must be posted very early in the morning on Mondays to Thursdays – the only days on which the mail-coach goes from here to K. – You are suffering – Ah, wherever I am, there you are also – I will arrange it with you and me that I can live with you. What a life!!! thus!!! without you – pursued by the goodness of mankind hither and thither – which I as little want to deserve as I deserve it – Humility of man towards man – it pains me – and when I consider myself in relation to the universe, what am I and what is He – whom we call the greatest – and yet – herein lies the divine in man – I weep when I reflect that you will probably not receive the first report from me until Saturday – Much as you love me – I love you more – But do not ever conceal yourself from me – good night – As I am taking the baths I must go to bed – Oh God – so near! so far! Is not our love truly a heavenly structure, and also as firm as the vault of heaven?
The Third Letter
Good morning, on July 7
Though still in bed, my thoughts go out to you, my Immortal Beloved, now and then joyfully, then sadly, waiting to learn whether or not fate will hear us – I can live only wholly with you or not at all – Yes, I am resolved to wander so long away from you until I can fly to your arms and say that I am really at home with you, and can send my soul enwrapped in you into the land of spirits – Yes, unhappily it must be so – You will be the more contained since you know my fidelity to you. No one else can ever possess my heart – never – never – Oh God, why must one be parted from one whom one so loves. And yet my life in V is now a wretched life – Your love makes me at once the happiest and the unhappiest of men – At my age I need a steady, quiet life – can that be so in our connection? My angel, I have just been told that the mailcoach goes every day – therefore I must close at once so that you may receive the letter at once – Be calm, only by a calm consideration of our existence can we achieve our purpose to live together. Be calm – love me – today – yesterday – what tearful longings for you – you – you – my life – my all – farewell. Oh continue to love me – never misjudge the most faithful heart of your beloved.
ever thine
ever mine
ever ours

Heloise and Abelard

POSTED IN essays April 30, 2012

To Peter Abelard:

I have your picture in my room. I never pass by it without stopping to look at it; and yet when you were present with me, I scare ever cast my eyes upon it. If a picture which is but a mute representation of an object can give such pleasure, what cannot letters inspire? They have souls, they can speak, they have in them all that force which expresses the transport of the heart; they have all the fire of our passions….

Heloise

( Heloise was a French nun and was writing to Peter Abelard, a philosopher. Abelard had been her tutor and they were secretly married. They were separated and Abelard was mutilated by order of her uncle.

Heloise lived c 1098-1164 )

Sibilla Aleramo and Dino Campana

POSTED IN essays April 30, 2012

Sibilla Aleramo

e Dino Campana

Chiudo il tuo libro,

snodo le mie trecce,

o cuor selvaggio,

musico cuore…

con la tua vita intera

sei nei miei canti

come un addio a me.

Smarrivamo gli occhi negli stessi cieli,

meravigliati e violenti con stesso ritmo andavamo,

liberi singhiozzando, senza mai vederci,

né mai saperci, con notturni occhi.

Or nei tuoi canti

la tua vita intera

è come un addio a me.

Cuor selvaggio,

musico cuore,

chiudo il tuo libro,

le mie trecce snodo.

Sibilla Aleramo a Dino Campana, Mugello, 25-7-1916

In un momento

Sono sfiorite le rose

I petali caduti

Perché io non potevo dimenticare le rose

Le cercavamo insieme

Abbiamo trovato delle rose

Erano le sue rose erano le mie rose

Questo viaggio chiamavamo amore

Col nostro sangue e colle nostre lagrime facevamo le rose

Che brillavano un momento al sole del mattino

Le abbiamo sfiorite sotto il sole tra i rovi

Le rose che non erano le nostre rose

Le mie rose le sue rose.

Dino Campana a Sibilla Aleramo, 1917

FAMOUS LOVE LETTERS

POSTED IN essays April 30, 2012

Rakkaimpani maan päällä, olen tänään ikävöinyt sinua niin, että olen ollut vähällä kuolla tai tulla luoksesi. Molemmat kiusaukset olen nyt voittanut , en kyllä ilman tuntuvia tappioita. Sinä et ymmärrä, mitä on ikävöidä ja rakastaa niin, että järki meneeja elämä ja kuolema on samantekevää. Niin rakastan minä sinua. Soitin tänään kotiisi, sekä Aristoon ja Espilään. Et ollut missään niistä. Olin nim. aamulla tulla hulluksi rakkaudesta sinuun. Sain panna kaiken tahdon ja älyn voimani liikkeelle ollakseni tulematta nyt yöjunalla luoksesi.
Nyt istun yksinäni Gradinissa ja kirjoitan tätä pehmeällä “tuukilla”, joka kyllä näkyy. Helsinki heiluu yhtenä ainoana liputuksena. Enko mitenkään saa olla lähelläsi? Järkeni ei ole himmennyt, vaikka sitä kysyn. Minulla olisi suurem)pi rauha tehdä työtä. Uuteen kirjaani tulee tilintekoja sellaisia, että niitä ei ole vielä missään. Onpa tämä koetusten vuosi. En sano kiusausten sillä niitä ei jumalan kiitos ole minulla ollut. Minulla ei ole kuin yksi kiusaus: tahtoisin lapsen kanssasi. Mitä siitä mikä siitä tulee, kuka sitä on kysynyt meitä luodessamme. Me teemme alun, elämä tai kuolema tekee lopun. Sotavuosi, ruttovuosi, se on juuri oikea, voi kuolla ilmankin.
Sinä olet vielä liian nuori ymmärtääksesi mitä on kuolla. Ah, se ei ole mitään. Ihminen kuoleenäetkö ilmankin, ilman mitään tarkoitusta. Ei niin, että kuolemasta muka aina pitäisi syntyä elämää, vaan niin että kuolema sinään on elämys.
Rakas Poju! Ei tästä nyt tule erittäin hauskaa kirjettä mutta minkäs sille mahtaa. Maailma on lämmin ja vesi tippuu räystäistä. Menenpä taas kotiin skriiveroimaan. Ilmoita milloin tulet niin tulen vastaasi asemalle.
Sydämelliset tervehtäen sinua ikävöivä,
Onerva.

Helsinki, 12.03.1915

( L. Onerva wrote to her husband, the composer Leevi Madetoja)

Älä mitään kysy
ma mitään en tiedä
Ah tuska on tainnut
mun järkeni viedä.

Älä lemmestä haasta – se pelottaa mua
on sydämeni tainnut – jo paleltua…

Kaikki ruusut peittää
jo valkea halla
sua suutelen suurien
tähtien alla
Sun myöhään kohtasin
kadotin varhain,
olet viimeinen kulkija
Kuolevain tarhain.

L. Onerva 12.11.1912

The Lover tells of the Rose in his heart

POSTED IN essays April 28, 2012

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old,
The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart,
The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry mould,
Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told;
I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart,
With the earth and the sky and the water, re-made, like a casket of gold
For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

by William Butler Yeats