My only friend, the end.
Before I go, I thought I would put you all out of the misery you must have been living in, wondering from where the title '... an art, like everything else', as well as my web pseudonym, Esther Greenwood, came.
Contrary to the whole spirit of this blog, which veers between the stupid and the inane, its titular inspiration was derived from my favourite poet, Sylvia Plath. The line is:
Contrary to the whole spirit of this blog, which veers between the stupid and the inane, its titular inspiration was derived from my favourite poet, Sylvia Plath. The line is:
Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.
Dark! O yes. And Esther Greenwood is the name of the protagonist in Plath's only novel, The Bell Jar.
So, as a concession to my literary obsession (read: wankiness), I'm going to post the whole poem. It's a really unfitting end to the blog, which I guess makes it fitting.
Catcha over at Lists and Diagrams.
So, as a concession to my literary obsession (read: wankiness), I'm going to post the whole poem. It's a really unfitting end to the blog, which I guess makes it fitting.
Catcha over at Lists and Diagrams.
- A.
Lady Lazarus
by Sylvia Plath
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
posted by esther | 9:36 PM
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