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We can witness the young Miss Plath so confident in her upper-middle-classdom.
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5.
- Tonight I saw Mary. Jack and I were pushing out of the theater in a current of people, and she was edging the other way in a dark blue jacket. I hardly recognized her with her eyes downcast, her face made up. But beautiful. “I’ve been looking all over for you,” I said. “Mary. Call me, write me.” She smiled, a little like the Mary I used to know, and she was gone. I knew I would never have a friend quite like her. So I went out in a white dress, a white coat, with a rich boy. And I hated myself for my hypocrisy. I love Mary. Betsy is nothing but fun; hysterical fun. Mary is me... what I would be if I had been born of Italian parents on Linden Street. She is something vital, an artist’s model, life. She can be rude, undependable, and she is more to me than all the pretty, well-to-do, artificial girls I could ever meet. Maybe it’s my ego. Maybe I crave someone who will never be my rival. But with her I can be honest. She could be a prostitute, and I would not give a damn; I’ll never deny her as a friend...
-- Sylvia Plath Journals 1950-1953
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After high school you can really feel your class origins. While Sylvia is all excited about going to an elite college and about her future as an artist and poet, I imagine that ethnicky Mary has been resigning herself to her future as a cocktail waitress or as a housewife to a laborer. I doubt we will be hearing about Mary again, but maybe I am in for a big surprise. I have not read ahead in these journals, myself.
_ _ _
5.
- Tonight I saw Mary. Jack and I were pushing out of the theater in a current of people, and she was edging the other way in a dark blue jacket. I hardly recognized her with her eyes downcast, her face made up. But beautiful. “I’ve been looking all over for you,” I said. “Mary. Call me, write me.” She smiled, a little like the Mary I used to know, and she was gone. I knew I would never have a friend quite like her. So I went out in a white dress, a white coat, with a rich boy. And I hated myself for my hypocrisy. I love Mary. Betsy is nothing but fun; hysterical fun. Mary is me... what I would be if I had been born of Italian parents on Linden Street. She is something vital, an artist’s model, life. She can be rude, undependable, and she is more to me than all the pretty, well-to-do, artificial girls I could ever meet. Maybe it’s my ego. Maybe I crave someone who will never be my rival. But with her I can be honest. She could be a prostitute, and I would not give a damn; I’ll never deny her as a friend...
-- Sylvia Plath Journals 1950-1953
_ _ _
After high school you can really feel your class origins. While Sylvia is all excited about going to an elite college and about her future as an artist and poet, I imagine that ethnicky Mary has been resigning herself to her future as a cocktail waitress or as a housewife to a laborer. I doubt we will be hearing about Mary again, but maybe I am in for a big surprise. I have not read ahead in these journals, myself.
