On my skin. Like a Belsen label. Ted left yesterday, after a ghastly week, with all his stuff, clothes, books, papers.
Letter To My Wife Before Divorce
It is over. My life can begin. I am myself, proud, and full of plans. I need time to breathe, sun, recover my flesh. To Olive Higgins Prouty American novelist and poet. After I drove him to the station with his things, I returned to the empty house expecting to be morbid and huge with gloom. I was ecstatic.
Soldier's Last Letter
My life, my sense of identity, seemed to be flying back to me from all quarters. I knew what I wanted to do, pretty much who I was, where I wanted to go, who I wanted see, even just how, when I get to a good London haircutter, I wanted to do my weird hair. I was my own woman. I am doing a poem a day, all marvellous, free, full songs. I think my marriage, though it had much good, was a pretty sick one.
They look exactly alike: the same color, shape, everything. All sophistication. I suppose it will be hell for me to meet them together at my first party or literary affair. But I will. Ted says she has got my book out of the library, adores my work, etc. His stay here before the final departure almost killed me. I have never felt such hate. Two years of hypocrisy, just waiting for the right bed to fall in? It just seems insane to me. Ted is on the brink of real wealth.
His mss. He is at the peak of fame. His family wants him to give us nothing. He has left me no address. I hope time may mellow him toward the children, but I doubt it. His ethic is that of the hawk in one of his most famous poems, being taught to all British school-children: I kill where I please, it is all mine. Just tell me where all this hate comes from? Well, I should think so! I see, too, that domesticity was a fake cloak for me. My trouble is that I can do an awful lot of stuff well. I can give a floor a beautiful scrub, cook a fine pie, deliver a baby with ease, and stitch up a nightgown.
I also love hanging out a clean laundry in the apple orchard. But I hate doing housework all, or much of the time. I have been running a fever out of sheer mad excitement with my own writing. I am ravenous for study, experience, travel. My mind is dying of starvation here. And I am tied by nothing but money. But me — my independence, my self, is so dear to me I shall never bind it to anyone again. Most men who are domestic are dull — I hate routine jobs, and most men who are creative or scientific miracles are bastards.
‘The syntax of love’
Faithfulness, the ethic of faithfulness, is essentially boring. I see that. That bores me too. There is so much else besides sex. I want my career, my children, and a free supple life. I am so happy, everything intrigues me. It is as if this divorce were the key to free all my repressed energy, which is fierce from six years of boiling in a vacuum. On March 23, , Assia Wevill took her own life and that of their daughter Shura in a manner that nearly re-enacted Sylvia Plath's suicide.
I am writing from London, so happy I can hardly speak. I think I have found a place. And guess what, it is W. With a blue plaque over the door saying he lived there! Ted is behind me in this, he took me round looking at places. Now he sees he has nothing to fear from me — no scenes or vengefulness — he is more human.
I amaze myself. It is my work that does it, my sense of myself as a writer. I had my fringe cut just before I came up to London in the most fashionable style — high on top, curling down round the ears — and kept my long coronet in back. It looks fabulous. My morale is so much improved. I may be poor in bank funds, but I am so much richer in every other way I envy them nothing.
What a bore. I am happier than ever before in my life. Now he goes out with fashion models. Well, here I am! And I can truly say I have never been so happy in my life. I just sit thinking Whew! I have done it, and beaming — shall I write a poem, shall I paint a floor, shall I hug a baby? Everything is such fun, such an adventure. Frieda [aged nearly three] makes me so sad. It is like a kind of mirror, utterly innocent, to my own sense of loss. Having been so deeply and spiritually and physically happy with my dear, beautiful husband makes this harder than if I had never known love at all.
Ted has some of the inhumanity of the true genius that must kill to get what it wants. I have been feeling a bit grim — the upheaval over, I am seeing the finality of it all. Ted comes once a week [to see the children] like a kind of apocalyptic Santa Claus. There was enough identity left to me in Devon to make me feel immense relief at his departure — now I shall grow out of his shadow, I thought, I shall be me.
The Last Letter from Your Lover Reader’s Guide
He has said he is sorry for the lying, and shows concern that we get on on our own. If I were simply jealous about this it would be okay.
Qin is adequate by comparison. Still, the scenes between Qin and Zhou hit the right emotional notes, especially when the unintentional deception is discovered. This expression of the virtues of traditional communication may resonate in China, where lives increasingly revolve around technology the most locally popular messaging app, WeChat, is name-checked here.
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Site powered by Webvision Cloud. Skip to main content Skip to navigation. Shunji Iwai captures the mood in China with his first film to be set and filmed there. Last Letter. Production companies: Alibaba Pictures, Beijing J. Topics Asia China Reviews.
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