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The end of Sylvia’s date with Bob. And it looks like the end of Bob. She is ready to move on. Next step: college. Then the world. Just mix in more than a little disillusion.
_ _ _
Walking back to the car, the streets were wide, windswept and pale dark. I looked down an alley: beautiful blackness. Papers strewn in the streets. Unreal city. “I could polka down the streets,” I told Bob. I was sweet to him going home. It was the goodbye, the end of a cycle, and he had no way of knowing. He thought there still was hope.
In the car he said, after I had let him kiss me for a while, “It always has to end, doesn’t it? We always have to separate.”
“Yes,” I said.
He was insistent, “But it doesn’t always have to be that way. We could be together someday for always.”
“Oh, no,” I told him, wondering if he knew it was all over. “We keep running till we die. We separate, get further apart, till we are dead.”
He has no home; he is unhappy. I could be the source of his joy, the refuge of his life. And I can only pass on. Something in me wants more. I can’t rest. Without emotion I let him kiss me. The evening had been lovely, complete. I had been alone more than I could have been had I gone by myself. The poor guy; there is no one nicer. Perhaps some day I’ll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
-- Sylvia Plath, The Journals 1950
_ _ _
Walking back to the car, the streets were wide, windswept and pale dark. I looked down an alley: beautiful blackness. Papers strewn in the streets. Unreal city. “I could polka down the streets,” I told Bob. I was sweet to him going home. It was the goodbye, the end of a cycle, and he had no way of knowing. He thought there still was hope.
In the car he said, after I had let him kiss me for a while, “It always has to end, doesn’t it? We always have to separate.”
“Yes,” I said.
He was insistent, “But it doesn’t always have to be that way. We could be together someday for always.”
“Oh, no,” I told him, wondering if he knew it was all over. “We keep running till we die. We separate, get further apart, till we are dead.”
He has no home; he is unhappy. I could be the source of his joy, the refuge of his life. And I can only pass on. Something in me wants more. I can’t rest. Without emotion I let him kiss me. The evening had been lovely, complete. I had been alone more than I could have been had I gone by myself. The poor guy; there is no one nicer. Perhaps some day I’ll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
-- Sylvia Plath, The Journals 1950
