Dearest, I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier 'til this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that – everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been. V
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I feel that the above is one of the most beautiful letters ever written. It is also, sadly, a suicide note--also probably the most beautiful ever written. It is from Virginia Woolf to her husband.
I recently finished The Paris Wife, a historical fiction novel by Paula McLain. Written from the perspective of Hadley Richardson, it details Ernest Hemingway's first marriage and it's downfall. It is clear, from their respective biographies, that the relationship is doomed, almost from the very beginning. They both grew up in homes where the women ran the show, to disastrous results for both Hadley and Ernest. Furthermore, even though they both love the other deeply, Earnest really was too damaged.
He increased the effects of his damage, he perpetually needed validation in everything he did. When he didn't receive that validation, or it wasn't to his satisfaction, he was cruel and manipulative. Hadley, who never had the chance to develop herself as a person, never had the chance to be better than he believed her to be.
She was, in many ways, the perfect companion for Ernest. She just wasn't the perfect wife. Not because she didn't try but because Ernest would never find the perfect wife. He couldn't find that happiness.
I understand why Ernest was the way he was, but I can never forgive him. I would say that he was, in fact, very very ill. He drank himself stupid, he alienated almost every friend he made, and married four times.
I wonder if The Sylvia Plath Effect is real. James C. Kaufman posited in 2001 that all poets (although he decided to mention that women poets are more likely to be effected) are more likely to be mentally ill than other professions, such as politicians (which I think that is WAY off--have you ever met a stable politician, really?), artists, and actresses. It is backed up by other psychological research.
All of this makes me wonder...at what point do we control our illness and at what point does the illness control us?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I feel that the above is one of the most beautiful letters ever written. It is also, sadly, a suicide note--also probably the most beautiful ever written. It is from Virginia Woolf to her husband.
I recently finished The Paris Wife, a historical fiction novel by Paula McLain. Written from the perspective of Hadley Richardson, it details Ernest Hemingway's first marriage and it's downfall. It is clear, from their respective biographies, that the relationship is doomed, almost from the very beginning. They both grew up in homes where the women ran the show, to disastrous results for both Hadley and Ernest. Furthermore, even though they both love the other deeply, Earnest really was too damaged.
He increased the effects of his damage, he perpetually needed validation in everything he did. When he didn't receive that validation, or it wasn't to his satisfaction, he was cruel and manipulative. Hadley, who never had the chance to develop herself as a person, never had the chance to be better than he believed her to be.
She was, in many ways, the perfect companion for Ernest. She just wasn't the perfect wife. Not because she didn't try but because Ernest would never find the perfect wife. He couldn't find that happiness.
I understand why Ernest was the way he was, but I can never forgive him. I would say that he was, in fact, very very ill. He drank himself stupid, he alienated almost every friend he made, and married four times.
I wonder if The Sylvia Plath Effect is real. James C. Kaufman posited in 2001 that all poets (although he decided to mention that women poets are more likely to be effected) are more likely to be mentally ill than other professions, such as politicians (which I think that is WAY off--have you ever met a stable politician, really?), artists, and actresses. It is backed up by other psychological research.
All of this makes me wonder...at what point do we control our illness and at what point does the illness control us?
