La caja de los deseos

by Sylvia Plath, Guillermo López Gallego (translator)

Reconocida por su obra poética, Sylvia Plath fue también una brillante escritora de prosa.

Esta colección de cuentos, ensayos y fragmentos de sus diarios destaca por su feroz concentración en el arte, la vitalidad de su inteligencia y los anhelos de su imaginación.

En estos escritos encontraremos la temprana preocupación de Plath por los problemas derivados de las enfermedades mentales; los complejos procesos de la creatividad y, de manera destacada, una diversidad de temas que tienen la feminidad como eje central.

Esta obra es especialmente sugestiva, pues presenta la esencia de sus poemas y de todos los temas recurrentes de su trabajo posterior, y ofrece así una visión significativa de su desarrollo como escritora. Ted Hughes se encargó de la selección de los textos y del epílogo presente en esta edición.

Genres: Short Stories, Fiction, Classics, Poetry, Essays, Literature, American

380 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1977

About the author

Sylvia Plath was an American poet, novelist, and short story writer, widely regarded as one of the most influential and emotionally powerful authors of the 20th century. Born in Boston, Massachusetts, she demonstrated literary talent from an early age, publishing her first poem at the age of eight. Her early life was shaped by the death of her father, Otto Plath, when she was eight years old, a trauma that would profoundly influence her later work.
Plath attended Smith College, where she excelled academically but also struggled privately with depression. In 1953, she survived a suicide attempt, an experience she later fictionalized in her semi-autobiographical novel The Bell Jar. After recovering, she earned a Fulbright Scholarship to study at Newnham College, Cambridge, in England. While there, she met and married English poet Ted Hughes in 1956. Their relationship was passionate but tumultuous, with tensions exacerbated by personal differences and Hughes's infidelities.
Throughout her life, Plath sought to balance her ambitions as a writer with the demands of marriage and motherhood. She had two children with Hughes, Frieda and Nicholas, and continued to write prolifically. In 1960, her first poetry collection, The Colossus and Other Poems, was published in the United Kingdom. Although it received modest critical attention at the time, it laid the foundation for her distinctive voice—intensely personal, often exploring themes of death, rebirth, and female identity.
Plath's marriage unraveled in 1962, leading to a period of intense emotional turmoil but also extraordinary creative output. Living with her two children in London, she wrote many of the poems that would posthumously form Ariel, the collection that would cement her literary legacy. These works, filled with striking imagery and raw emotional force, displayed her ability to turn personal suffering into powerful art. Poems like "Daddy" and "Lady Lazarus" remain among her most famous, celebrated for their fierce honesty and technical brilliance.
In early 1963, following a deepening depression, Plath died by suicide at the age of 30. Her death shocked the literary world and sparked a lasting fascination with her life and work. The posthumous publication of Ariel in 1965, edited by Hughes, introduced Plath's later poetry to a wide audience and established her as a major figure in modern literature. Her novel The Bell Jar was also published under her own name shortly after her death, having initially appeared under the pseudonym "Victoria Lucas."
Plath’s work is often classified within the genre of confessional poetry, a style that emphasizes personal and psychological experiences. Her fearless exploration of themes like mental illness, female oppression, and death has resonated with generations of readers and scholars. Over time, Plath has become a feminist icon, though her legacy is complex and occasionally controversial, especially in light of debates over Hughes's role in managing her literary estate and personal history.
Today, Sylvia Plath is remembered not only for her tragic personal story but also for her immense contributions to American and English literature. Her work continues to inspire writers, artists, and readers worldwide. Collections such as Ariel, Crossing the Water, and Winter Trees, as well as her journals and letters, offer deep insight into her creative mind. Sylvia Plath’s voice, marked by its intensity and emotional clarity, remains one of the most haunting and enduring in modern literature.

Reviews

[Luís · Rating 5 out of 5]

These five short stories by Sylvia Plath deal with the following:

1. The irruption into a brutally hostile imagination (The Fifty-Ninth Bear).
2. The search for literary inspiration until death (The wish box).
3. The boundary between life and death (The day Mr. Prescott died).
4. The disillusionment of coming of age (Superman or the new outfit of Paula Brown).
5. The prosaic and dreamed worlds (Mintons' Sunday).

Under the simplicity of the situations evoked, Sylvia Plath draws in a direct style, using a muscular and delicate line, as the eruption of an unjust and brutal world is revealed beneath the reassuring organization of everyday life.

[Emily · Rating 4 out of 5]

Oh, Sylvia. Thank you for showing me that talent isn't the same thing as genius, and how some people have to struggle for the former until they fall into the latter. And how is it that you were just as effective at throwing me headlong into writing now, at 24, as you were at 15 when I had never before tried? I'm sad to put you down, but this is the last work of yours there is for me to read in the world. Now, more than ever, I wish you hadn't put your pretty little head in that oven. I want more of you.

[Steven Godin · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Every day from nine to five I sit at my desk facing the door of the office and type up other people’s dreams. Not just dreams. That wouldn’t be practical enough for my bosses. I also type up people’s daytime complaints: trouble with mother, trouble with father, trouble with the bottle, the bed, the headache that bangs home and blacks out the sweet world for no known reason. Nobody comes to our office unless they have troubles. Troubles that can’t be pinpointed"

My second Plath in a week, but this time have put the poetry to one side, and gone for this collection of short-stories, journal entries, essays, and lesser know prose writings, some of which were published posthumously by Ted Hughes. Many featured give an insight into Sylvia's life, thoughts and feelings. Any serious Plath fan would find much to like here, although a few stories are a little bit unusual. Some pieces are witty and lively, but the darkness that plagued her mind always appears to be hiding around the corner. At least, that's the impression I got.

One thing is for sure, it's easy to get addicted. She had the ability to take hold of readers at the flick of a switch.

My Highlights -

'The fifteen-dollar eagle'
'Sweetie Pie and the gutter men'
'Johnny Panic and the bible of dreams'
'The day Mr. Prescott died'
'The daughters of Blossom Street'
'Widow Mangada'

[Sana · Rating 3 out of 5]

این سه امتیاز فقط برای داستان سیلویا.

[Magdalen · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ted Hughes warned in the introduction “This collection does not represent the prose of the poet of Ariel, any more than the poems of the Colossus represent the poetry of the poet of Ariel” and of course he was right (after all he did know Sylvia better than you and me)

This collection of short stories is a slap to everyone who considers Sylvia Plath just a great poet. Here she proves that she is capable and extremely talented at writing something other than poems. The writing is so unique and distinguishable among a thousand. Her vocabulary is splendid and even if we are talking about short stories there is something poetic in them. She uses so many similes and a huge variety of adjectives that it feels as if images could pop out of the book all of a sudden. Plath manages to do so without becoming boring or tiring. Also, memorable quotes can be found in those short stories as well. Some of my favorites were:
“The door of the novel, like the door of the poem, also shuts. But not so fast, nor with such manic, unanswerable finality”
“Surely the great use of poetry is its pleasure- not its influence as religious or political propaganda”
“So many people were shut up tight inside themselves like boxes, yet they would open up, unfolding quite wonderfully, if only you were interested in them. And really, you don’t have to belong to a club to feel related to other human beings”
I wish I had the chance to meet Sylvia Plath and ask her which were her favorite stories. To ask her about the “In the mountains” & “Among the bumblebees” She was such a promising writer. She had such great potential.

Moving on to the excerpts from her journals… At first I was tempted not to read them, but then I gave in and read them. I am thankful that I did. Plath showed me that struggling is something human like. It was so relieving (and heart-breaking too) to realize that even someone as great as her struggled with writing at some point. Sylvia Plath is one of my favorite poets/ writers and knowing that she could offer so much more to the world (than she already did) saddens me… She was -at least to me- one of those people you wish you have met and hanged out with…

“I am dead to them, even though I once flowered. That is the latent terror, a symptom: it is suddenly either all or nothing: either you break the surface into the whistling void or you don’t. I want to get back to my more normal intermediate path where the substance of the world is permeated by my being: eating food, reading, writing, talking, shopping: so all is good in itself, and not just a hectic activity to cover up the fear that must face itself to duel itself to death, saying: A Life is Passing!

“…the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine: it is that kind of madness which is worst: the kind with fancies and hallucinations would be a bosch-ish relief.”

PS: There were only a few stories that I didn't enjoy as much as others. (Snow blitz I guess was the only one I didn't fancy at all)

[°•.Melina°•. · Rating 3 out of 5]

یک کتاب پنج میلی‌متری،که شامل داستان‌کوتاهی از سیلویا‌پلات و تد هیوز(چرا تو همه‌ی کتابای سیلویا این ایکبیری رو هم میچسبونن بهش؟؟سیلویا خودکشی کرد که از دست ایشون راحت شه، اگه میدونست بعد از مرگش باز همه جا کنار اسمش قرار داره و حتی مقدمه‌ی دفترخاطراتش رو هم اون نوشته و اسمش رو جلدش هست چی؟؟راحتش بذارید دیگه،زندگیشو ازش گرفت حالا مرگش رو هم داره تسخیر میکنه و همچنان بعد از مرگ جفتشون از اسم سیلویا به عنوان شناخته شدن خودش استفاده میکنه😒😒)

عنی‌وی.
این کتابو قرض گرفتم چون دوست داشتم تصور و تجربه‌ای از قلم داستانی این بزرگوار،قبل از خوندن رمانش داشته باشم و میتونم اینجوری توصیفش کنم:
مثل ذهن خود سیلویا،گنگ و مبهم و پیچیده و پر از رویا و کابوس.تا وقتی تحلیل‌هاشو خوندم چیز زیادی ازش نفهمیدم،اما داستان دوم خوش‌خوان تر و قابل درک تر بود و میشه گفت اگر به هر دو دل بدید،واقعا "شاهکار های میلی متری" هستن.

[Kirk · Rating 3 out of 5]

Reviewing this collection of posthumously published ephemera in 1979, Margaret Atwood called Johnny Panic "a minor work by a major writer." Unfortunately, that perception has stuck for nearly thirty years now, leading to the rather unfortunate conclusion that Plath was less than successful in her attempts at the short story. That presumption does a real disservice to the stories in this collection, which by any other standard than the towering accomplishments of Plath's own poetry, are accomplished, varied, experimental, and compelling. We would do well to remember that Plath launched her career as a storywriter, winning the Mademoiselle creative writing contest in the early 50s with "Sunday at the Mintons." While only a contrarian would argue that these stories equal the poetry, a valid argument can be made that, if we can accept The Bell Jar as a classic coming-of-age novel, then we ought to make a place for Plath in the short-story canon.

To that, however, would require a reinvention of this collection (which differs anyway from the 1977 British edition). First, get rid of Ted Hughes' introduction, which doesn't mince words when informing readers that what they're about to delve into is mediocre. I suppose that in the 70s, amid the rushing to market of Plathiana (including The Bell Jar, which, lest we forget, nobody ever heard of in America until 1971), such an argument had to be made for the sake of Plath's reputation. Now that she's an uncontested major, however, it's time to allow the stories to stand on their own merits rather than compete with her other efforts.

Second, the book needs reorganizing. The original British version presented the stories chronologically; this version presents them in reverse chronological order. Either way, readers are urged to consider the fiction within the arc of Plath's career and biography, which already are far too dominant in assessments of her. I would recommend a thematic organization (Marriage, Motherhood, Family--Dreams and Visions---Life and Death in America, etc). That way a solid effort like "Tongues of Stone" can stand on its own instead of being considered a precursor to Jar, and a genre exercise like "All the Dead Dears" can be read formalistically.

Finally, the diary passages excerpted here are redunant since the publication of Plath's journals; their presence only serves to undermine the autonomy of her stories. Same for the smattering of journalism, which would more profitably fit as an appendix of the journals.

Until something along these lines happen, I doubt Johnny Panic will ever transcend its "minor" status, which will be unfortunate. The title story is brilliant; at least a half dozen entries here are top-notch ("The Wishing Box" especially); and even the weaker ones have some thematic relevance to Plath's trademark issues of creativity, domesticity, and emotional discontent. They deserve a fairer reading than they've thus far been accorded.

[Mariel · Rating 4 out of 5]

Maybe a mouse gets to thinking pretty early on how the whole world is run by these enormous feet. Well, from where I sit, I figure the world is run by one thing and one thing only. Panic with a dog-face, devil-face, hag-face, whore-face, panic in capital letters with no face at all- it's the same Johnny Panic, awake or asleep.

Dream by dream, thief by crook into the book. While I sneak onto goodreads to read an update or two before the creepy turtle that plagues me figures out he has something to rat me out on (only in my dreams is it not okay for absolutely everyone else to watch youtube all day) this girl is cribbing dreams when she is supposed to be doing whatever it is she is supposed to be doing. I mean ethically wise to collect her paycheck. Into a book these privileged documents go into the bible of dreams for Johnny Panic. I thought she should have had an hourglass to test the sandman's time but instead she listens for the tell tale walk of the cripple over her. There are false alarms. The keeper of the patients dream records isn't the only cripple in the building. It is her day time dream to have unfettered access to the fluttering pages of the book. She keeps one lidless eye on the book in the vision in her mind and the other webbed on her own night-time wanderings above a nearly transparent lake. It reaches every direction and has no shores that she can see in the confined dream world. If you make that face too long it will get stuck that way. Dream of suspension over the dream lake enough and you will have the dragon legs of the beasts that live inside of it. It might be like if you stay in the tub too long and your hands become prunes. Your mind will shrivel into a packet of brain ramen noodles. Dehydrated and disused. You died in your sleep. Her dream lake might have rivers into the minds of others. I don't know if she hoped to find their land of the dreams brain embryos in the place you go before you were born. Connected to her one big dream. The only dream she knows.
Her pride in her job as Assistant Secretary in the Adult Psychiatric Clinic reminded me of the optimistic girl Mary portrayed by Kirsten Dunst in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I don't understand their invisible therapy and someone could have come up with an analogy like "on par with a heavy night of drinking" to explain it to me. I have a sense of a facial collapse when the assurance that the great work is as elusive as a real life counterpart to your favorite white knight and horse sex dream scenario. She is attached to the owner of dreams in the figure of Johnny Panic. What if there was one dryer above all dryers that stole all the pairs of your missing socks. There was once a patient- you can call him Harry Bilbo because that was his name in the story. I think that's an unfortunate name if he were a real person- cured of the panic-light guiding his sleeping life. I can't help but feel she's talking to herself about the pride and joy of her office that would be in direct opposition to this Johnny Panic if there were such an overlord of collective primordial fears. The day comes. It has to come. The day dreams take over. The cripples banged the dinner gongs with their steps on the tiles. She could have been like the little boy in The Neverending Story who eats his packed lunch and talks aloud of Atreyu and saving the world of stories. She doesn't have the lunch. An apple will have to do and I felt her longing for the apple in the safety of her desk keenest of all. The face must fall of the invisible safety clinic. The two legs must collapse on pins and needles. Her legs have fallen asleep. A dance of shaking would be in order but she is taken in by the eclipsing appearance of the clinic director. I do not believe in his authority. It is time to take the cure from bad dreams. I wonder if the barren lands of no dreams stretch out in horizon less worlds of the fruitless trees of other dead lands of the no dreamers. Don't forget me, Johnny. HO! Who is that? It is Johnny Panic himself. He flips off the machine and says to the white coat lights of nothingness: No one puts baby in the corner. Of course he did. I never believed in the white coats. Shut your eyes and there's a bad dream. That's all they would ever be there for.

What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination. When the sky outside is merely pink, and the rooftops merely black: that photographic mind which paradoxically tells the truth, but the worthless truth, about the world. It is that synthesizing spirit, that "shaping" force, which prolifically sprouts and makes up its own worlds with more inventiveness than God which I desire. If I sit still and don't do anything, the world goes on beating like a slack drum, without meaning. We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine: it is that kind of madness which is worst: the kind with fancies and hallucinations would be a Bosch-ish relief. I listen always for footsteps coming up the stairs and hate them if they are not for me. Why, why, can I not be an ascetic for a while, instead of always teetering on the edge of wanting complete solitude for work and reading, and so much, so much, the gestures of hands and words of other human beings. Well, after this Racine paper, this Ronsard purgatory, this Sophocles, I shall write: letters and prose and poetry, toward the end of the week; I must be stoic until then.

This I want too. The silent language of hands, laying on. Words inside and building up everywhere. The worst thing that could happen is to not care any more about stories. This I fear too. Plath wrote this in an early Cambridge journal. I felt this in her stories. That the incarnadine sky of the mind was pushing back against the worst that could happen. I think about this all of the time. It meant something to me to see it written by Plath so long ago. It feels like my own skin is too small when I'm with others and when I'm alone I feel like it will disappear into me completely. I don't feel that about writing, though. It is the reading that helps me feel the solitary and yet not alone completeness I don't know where or how to find anywhere else. (I've written about this to a disgusting degree on goodreads. I write about the same things all of the time. That's the cold shock of finding this from someone else. I don't want to keep saying the same thing and here I am saying it again. The only thing that makes it better is it isn't my own voice I'm so sick to death of.)

I cannot say that I had a least favorite story. I don't want to say that because it isn't true. It is more like if you read a story or watched a film and it made you kind of smile. The warmth doesn't fire you up inside to last the whole day. If you walked on the ocean you would have to grab a life preserver of another story or drown.
Something like "The Fifty-Ninth Bears" was like this. A married couple have this bet going. The other holiday amusements are feeling like the holiday is already over and only the bet of who guessed the right number of how many bears they will see is still going like an advertisement bunny. I knew that she was going to see that fifty-ninth bear as the last thing she ever saw. I always knew it and the triumphant I was right imminent death was something like hearing a joke from a family member who is fond of the joke and repeats it to every new person you meet. You might be prompted to fill in parts because you tell it better. It was comfortable and, well, not my favorite. I felt the same about Sunday at the Mintons'. Oh, Plath can describe anything and I could trace over it in my mind. Something would keep me afloat. I liked this:

Hers was a twilight world, where the moon floated up over the trees at night like a tremulous balloon of silver light and the bluish rays wavered through the leaves outside her window, quivering in fluid patterns on the wallpaper of her room. The very air was mildly opaque, and forms wavered and blended one with the other. The wind blew in gentle, capricious gusts, now here, now there, coming from the sea or from the rose garden (she could tell by the scent of water or of flowers).

Elizabeth has relinquished her freedom to the blustery dominance of her brother Henry. Henry has a big mouth to devour other's words and desserts. When she confesses that she never paid attention to the direction she is going to he opens wide and sucks in her confidence to take in as she senses. I would draw him as the cartoon of the blowing cloud only his would suck in her dress. I am all for her floating above him when he topples into the ocean (I guess the ocean would say he was blue because the ocean was blue, not the other way around). But could she have floated above I would have been happy. I don't want to feel resigned that is how it happened, that she comes to him again, and I need another story now. If she could float she could float above another sea and maybe take the arm of a different person. Walk with me a while. Does it have to be blustery big mouths all of the time?

(Between you and me I love to read short story collections. I dread reviewing them on goodreads. There is the temptation to write about every story. I feel guilty for what I've left out.)

My favorite story maybe was Stone Boy with Dolphin. Does anyone else have to destroy everything they write? I had this idea that American Cambridge student Dody felt that way about this stone boy with the dolphin. She sees his face on the boy Leonard. Leonard was already claimed by the other American Cambridge student Adele. Adele who has the right things to say. The right things to say that you couldn't imagine what the rules were. You don't know what the game board looks like because her pristine blonde face will give you the look that you are from another planet. Sweetly, somehow. You broke the law and are suffered. I hate girls like Adele. I wouldn't want to know someone like Leonard even existed anymore if he could belong to someone like Adele (who wants someone who could belong to anyone at all?). I wish she had wanted to break his stone face for this reason but I don't think that's why she bites his face when finally she gets close. If she could break this statue. She doesn't know what it is supposed to be. She could be cured if her foot could break its face. Now that I think about it. He is a prince of pebbles if he's broken down. The Johnny Panic dreams share grands of sand in the dream pool. There is sand in her poetry too. It is grit in the eye and storms. An irritant, too small to notice. Something to be bigger if apart of something else. Glass blown and beautiful. If she could destroy the statue she could destroy the world that is in her, her art and her soul. The sand is glass after all in a window and the pavement stone. I liked the destructive urge. It feels like that when you don't like how you feel about what you could make.

The five boys surrounded Dody. They had no features at all, only pale, translucent moons for face shapes, so she would never know them again. And her face, too, felt to be a featureless moon. They could never recognize her in the light of day.

Plath writes about the nihilism of belonging. Schools, desks, trips, cake, competition and children smiling in rings. The nuns tried to wipe the smile off her face when she wasn't the tailored image. Behind those injustices and stoic day to day grinds are the descriptions of what everything could look like. At least something it could be, if the grit could be glass and you could see your face in it. I am surprised that more people haven't read this collection. I was happy to have them. I had them when I couldn't sleep and I repeated what everything looked like to myself. I didn't feel like I was drowning. Tongues of Stone reminded me of an Anna Kavan story from Asylum Piece or I am Lazarus. The glass breaks into shards in towel hidden under your foot when you stole the glass of milk from the other patient. I used to like picking up green bottle shards as a small child. I'd forget about the dirty Alabama school playground. You don't remember when you had your first glass of juice when they give you your second. They've been waiting for something for a long time and your everlasting rising of the sun are alarm clocks of doom. I think "warm and round, like apples in the sun" is a great way to describe the poisonous words of the nurse. She thinks you'll sleep tonight. Sometimes I forget there's a down side of staying in the world of stories. There's something else that could happen to you while you're asleep. Sometimes the book is just like that.

[Roula · Rating 4 out of 5]

◻️Αγαπητέ γιατρέ, νιώθω πολύ άρρωστη. Έχω μια καρδιά στο στομάχι μου που πάλλεται και κοροϊδεύει. Ξαφνικά οι απλές τελετουργίες της ημέρας, αρνούνται να προχωρήσουν, σαν πεισματαρικο άλογο. Γίνεται αδύνατο να κοιτάξω ανθρώπους στα μάτια :μπορεί  να ξεχυλισει και πάλι η σαπίλα? Ποιος ξέρει. Οι συζητήσεις περί ανέμων και υδάτων γίνονται ανυπόφορες.
⬛Μερικές φορές νιώθω τόσο ηλιθια. Όμως αν ήμουν ηλιθια, δε θα ήμουν ευτυχισμένη με καποιον από τους άντρες που έχω γνωρίσει? Ή μηπως επειδή είμαι ηλιθια, δεν είμαι ευχαριστημενη? Δύσκολο.


Πολλές φορές σκέφτομαι τι είναι αυτό που με γοητεύει τόσο στην πλαθ, γιατί είναι μια από τις αγαπημένες μου συγγραφείς? Δε λέω ποιητρια, ή συγγραφέας-ποιητρια, γιατί σαν ποιητρια θεωρώ πως έχει κερδίσει ακριβώς τη δόξα που της ταιριάζει, όμως σαν συγγραφέας, έστω και των λίγων πεζών που έχει γράψει, δεν είναι το ίδιο αναγνωρισμενη. Έτσι λοιπόν, σκεπτόμενη, καταλήγω πως αυτό που περισσότερο με γοητεύει στη γραφή της είναι κάτι που δύσκολα μπορεί να εξηγηθεί, αλλά θα προσπαθήσω. Χωρίς αμφιβολία, ήταν ένας άνθρωπος που αισθανόταν πολύ και πολλά. Το να βγάζεις λοιπόν όλο αυτόν τον πλούτο εμπειριών και όσων αισθάνεσαι μέσα σε ένα ποίημα, να το "φορτώνεις" με ήχους, εικόνες, μυρωδιές, αισθήσεις είναι κάτι επόμενο..η ποίηση σχεδόν πάντα χαρακτηρίζεται από μια υπερβολή, μια μεταφορικοτητα. Το να βάζεις ομως τόσα πρωτογνωρα συναισθήματα και τόσο ξεγυμνωμα ψυχής, μιας ψυχής που ίσως λίγοι μπορούν να την καταλάβουν, σε ένα βιβλίο( 'βιβλιάρα), όπως ο γυάλινος κωδων, σε τόσα σύντομα διηγήματα όπως αυτά που περιέχονται εδώ, υπονοοντας έτσι ότι μπορεις να είσαι τόσο αναλυτικός λόγω ίδιας εμπειρίας, για μένα είναι αφοπλιστικό και αυτό που λατρεύω στην πλαθ και ο λόγος που ίσως την προτιμώ στα πεζά πάρα στα ποιήματα.
Η συλλογή αυτή περιέχει πολλά από τα διηγήματα της πλαθ με μακράν καλύτερο για μένα το πρωτο και ομότιτλο της συλλογής, κάποια από τα οποία ήταν φανταστικά, κάποια μέτρια, κανένα όμως από αυτά δεν σε αφήνει αδιάφορο απέναντι στην γραφή της και στο ξεγυμνωμα της ψυχής της..
Η μεγάλη διαφορά για μένα ήταν οι σελίδες από προσωπικά ημερολόγια της Πλαθ που συμπεριλαμβάνονται σε αυτόν τον τόμο, καθώς ικανοποίησε πλήρως την επιθυμία που έχω πάντα για άτομα που θαυμάζω, να μπορούσα να "μπω στο κεφάλι τους έστω για λίγο".

[Vartika · Rating 3 out of 5]

Most people tend to forget that Plath started her career writing short stories, the first of which was published in 1952 upon winning a contest held by Mademoiselle magazine. The idea that her stories were inferior to the poetry she became known for is reinforced by many, including her ex-husband and editor Ted Hughes, who in his introduction to this volume tries to establish them as mediocre and far-removed from the supposed apotheosis of her talents in Ariel. Hughes' editorial heavy-hand is, however, one of the few things that lend a sour note to this otherwise delectable (if also uneven) sample of Plath's prose works: he goes as far as arranging the stories under the condescending labels of "The more successful short stories and prose pieces," and "other stories," and manages to highlight works that contribute to the image of her as the wanting daughter and the jealous housewife above all else.

Even so, Plath's genius manages to peak through: The title story of Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams is a hypnotic tale that, in my opinion, far surpasses the intensity of The Bell Jar despite its comparative brevity. I also found myself immersed in the gorgeous composition and the gripping ideas behind pieces such as "The Wishing Box", "Ocean 1212-W", "A Comparison," "Context", and "Initiation." "Snow Blitz" was amusing to me because it involves Plath writing of London in the same manner as famous Londoners (and westerners in general) are known to write of the so-called third world, and I liked the short essays "A Comparison" and "Context" for presenting pleasing examples of her political and poetic sensibilities.

The edition I'm reading from also includes excerpts from Plath's journals and several stories found amongst her papers in the Lily Library in Indiana. I was not tempted to revisit many of the journal entries, gorgeous as I remember them to have been, but did notice how several of these directly formed the experiential corpus on which Plath seems to have based some of her best writing (including the poem, "Lady Lazarus"). I was also touched by the stories "The Lady Mangada", "The Shadow", and "Sweetie Pie and the Gutter Men," where her ideas on war, womanhood, pregnancy and other themes make themselves markedly and artfully explicit.

There were some stories that I couldn't quite get my head around, but that is to be expected of any collection. The remarkable thing about this volume—and why it isn't, as Margaret Atwood calls it, "a minor work by a major poet,"—is how clearly it reflects her thoughtful mastery of words and emotions, and her ability to distill it into stunning imagery. These stories are not ephemera, then, but glimpses into her dazzling talents at work, and should be considered as much part of the brickwork that lends to her towering reputation as anything else.

[Nevena · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ovo nije jedna od onih knjiga koje te oduvaju. Ona je u svojoj briljantnosti tako tiha, tako nenametljiva; ako ne posvetiš punu pažnju svakom redu teksta, njegova suptilna dubina ti promakne dok si rekao keks.

Silvija Plat jako dobro hvata slojevitost običnih trenutaka i prenosi ih slikovitim, živim opisima. Priče, iako jednostavne, daju prostor za refleksiju i priliku da zagrebemo ispod površine naše svakodnevice. Pritom je tama koju je Silvija nosila u sebi sveprisutna i često izranja iz neočekivanih uglova.

Sve priče su takve osim naslovne, koja me je, pravo da vam kažem, promućkala kao Kinder jaje. U nadrealnom stilu istražuje različite aspekte ljudske podsvesti, strahova, želja i unutrašnjih konflikata. I bogami ima opasan kick. Tih 20 strana po meni mnogo bolje radi posao nego što je Stakleno zvono trebalo na 220 (i to vam kaže osoba koja zapravo voli Stakleno zvono).

Za neke priče mi je delovalo da nemaju poentu i mislim da ću na njih morati da se vratim. To su tačno one gde mi je koncentracija skliznula. Između ostalog, Meri Venturu sam već čitala pre 3-4 godine i bila mi je osrednja. Sad sam je čitala pažljivije i odmah mi znači nešto više.

Jako mi je drago što naše izdanje ne prati podelu Teda Hjuza na „više i manje uspešne priče“. Ovakva kategorizacija, umesto da pruži dublji uvid u Silvijin opus, deluje kao nepravedna evaluacija koja sužava njen izraz. Posebno gorak zalogaj je što ona dolazi od njenog muža, osobe koja bi trebalo da ima najdublje razumevanje i poštovanje prema njenom stvaralaštvu.

Takođe mislim da nije dobro krenuti od ove zbirke ako ste skroz novi sa Silvijom. Velika je šansa da će vam onda ovo biti smor. Poznavanje njenih životnih okolnosti i tematskih preokupacija daju bitnu dimenziju celoj zbirci i mogu pomoći da bolje apsorbujete nijanse i dubinu svakog teksta. Možda nisu blještavi spektakl na prvi pogled, ali u meni lično su ove priče izazvale porast naklonosti i nežnosti prema Silviji.

Isti motivi se vrte: potreba za pisanjem, strah od gubitka sposobnosti za maštu (snove), detinjstvo, porodični odnosi, očekivanja od žena, problemi uklapanja u društvo, rat. Tematske uvertire Staklenom zvonu, očigledne najave onoga što sledi, čak i eksplicitna referenca na (ženskog) Lazara u Jezicima od kamena...

Interesantan je izbor imena, koja se takođe ponavljaju. Imamo Ester u Staklenom zvonu i Ester ovde, u Majkama. Ponavlja se ime Milisent, prezime Ventura (jedini primer za koji znam odakle potiče, a to je ime Silvijine školske drugarice), pa i ime Lukas asocira na njen pseudonim Viktorija Lukas.

Alis i Alison su mi posebno zanimljive, pogotovo kada uzmemo u obzir da se Alisa u Zemlji čuda direktno pominje u Kamenom dečaku s delfinom, u Silvijinim dnevnicima, a tu je i pesma A Sorcerer Bids Farewell To Seem koja u svojoj celini aludira na Alisu. Nije iznenađenje što je privlači Alisina simbolika, nevinost deteta suprotstavlja se apsurdnostima odraslog sveta, što odražava i Silvijinu vlastitu borbu sa svetom oko sebe. Istraživanja složene dinamike detinjstva, razvijanje (ženskog i ličnog) identiteta i suočavanje sa stvarnošću. To vam je Silvija.

Lični favoriti:
- Džoni Panika i Biblija snova
- Kutija za želje
- Jednog dana u junu
- Među bumbarima
- Udovica Mangada

[Osore Misanthrope · Rating 5 out of 5]

Званично режем вене на Силвију Плат. 🩸 🖤 Њен роман и песме читао сам 2019. године, у паклу. Враћам јој се у васкрсењу или некаквом status quo торпору. Чини ми се да би могла описивати и математичке теореме, а да трза из дорманције. Живописне компарације, економичан ритам и тактика приповедања (како из in medias res рендати одблеске портрета у чијој служби су екстеријер и ентеријер) и загрцнуће скице које не скикне, али се чује ехо, оно допире и дотиче, подстиче. Ко не воли сабласно и меланхолично отпакивање реминисценција, већ сервис на тацни, нека устукне пред дивом која управо говори:

“Песници су експерти за паковање кофера.”

“Осећала је како се мртви мозак склупчао у мрачној пећини лобање као парализовани шишмиш.”

(Клиничка) готика: “Проблеми нашег доба који ме највише заокупљају јесу несагледиви утицај радијације на људску генетику… [В]изије апокалипсе не дају ми да спавам. Моје песме ипак нису о Хирошими, већ о детету које се формира у тами, прст по прст. То нису песме о ужасима масовног истребљења, већ о суморном месецу изнад тисе на оближњем гробљу. Не о сведочанствима мучених Алжираца, већ о ноћним мислима премореног хирурга.”

“Сали је повратила дах и први пут јасно видела удовицу. Компликована насликана маска се распала и иза ње се видео вучји осмех. У њеним очима је била црна јама без дна у коју је пао камен и сад су се око ње ширили таласи у концентричним круговима. (…) Сали је чула шуштање бубашваба у орману, чула је паука како плете шестоугаоне омче изнад бунара. (…) ‘Скида онај натпис да издаје собе,’ прошапутао је Марк. Носећи натпис као одсечену људску главу, удовица се сјурила низ степенице.”

“[Н]ека се нешто догоди. Нека се најзад нешто догоди. Нешто страшно, крваво. Нешто што ће најзад окончати бескрајно гомилање сметова авионских писама и окретање празних страница књига у библиотеци. Како се расипамо, како разбацујемо себе ни у шта. Дозволите да уђем у Федру, да навучем црвену хаљину ужаса. Дозволите ми да оставим траг. (…) Ослушкивала је из своје таванске собе на трећем спрату и ловила високе тонове цике у приземљу. Чула је: вештице у оковима, пуцкетање Јованке Орлеанке на ломачи, две непознате даме које су буктале као бакље у згужваном металу спортског аутомобила, како просветљена Зелда гори иза решетака свог лудила. Визије које је имала долазиле су на справама за мучење, а не у комфору удобних кревета и термофора обичних смртника. Разголитила се пред њима унутрашњим оком, не трепнувши. Ево ме, дођите.”

Антиконформизам/индивидуализам: “Али код мене се то није примило – читав тај пројекат иницијације у ништавило припадања. Можда сам од почетка била превелика чудакиња. И шта су ти пробрани пупољци америчког женства радили на скуповима својих сестринстава? Јеле су торту; јеле су торту и брбљале о састанцима с момцима суботом увече. Привилегија са будем неко показала ми је своје друго лице – притисак да будем свако, дакле нико.”

Атеизам: “Дочекала је свештеника са малом зебњом. (…) Естер се некако одупрла напасти да избрбља да је атеиста и тако одмах све заврши. Док је отварала молитвеник који јој је свештеник донео на коришћење, осетила је како јој маска притворности стеже црте лица; саслушала је његово излагање редоследа службе. Код силаска светог духа и речи ‘васкрсење тела’ осетила је пробадање сопственог лицемерја. Када му је признала да не може да поверује у васкрсење тела (није се усудила да дода ‘а ни духа’), свештеник се није потресао. (…) Није имала снаге да повери свештенику да је кроз слична искуства пролазила пре десетак година када је на колеџу похађала предавања из упоредне религије, а све што је на крају добила било је жаљење што се није родила као Јеврејка.”

Егзистенцијална криза кроз пејзаж у портрету…и остало: “Ја мрзим бебе. (…) Грлећи своју кивност, ружну и бидљикаву, као неког тужног морског јежа, одлутала сам сама у супротном смеру, ка мрачном затвору. Као да стојим на некој удаљеној звезди, савршено јасно, хладно и трезвено видела сам подељеност свега. Осетила сам зид сопствене коже: ја сам ја. Онај камен је онај камен. Моја прелепа стопљеност са свим стварима овог света је нестала. (…) Да ли ми је морски пејзаж из детињства усадио љубав према промени и свему дивљем? Планине ме плаше – стално седе на истом месту, тако поносне. Непомичност брда ме гуши као велики јастук. (…) И ту се завршава моја визија детињства поред мора. После очеве смрти преселили смо се дубље у копно. Од тада се тих првих девет година живота издвојило и затворило у себе, као брод саграђен у боци – као прелеп, недодирљив, древан мит на белој крести таласа…”

Садизам: “Имао је обичај да мувама кида крила, а скакавцима ноге, па би осакаћене инсекте затварао у стаклену теглу коју је крио испод кревета да би могао у тајности да их гледа како се муче.”

“Сад поче да размишља како ли је у њеном уму – мрачна, топла соба пуна шарених светала, љуљају се и трепере, као да се мноштво фењера огледа у води, а на замагљеним зидовима смењују се слике нежних боја и нејасних контура као платна импресиониста. Боје рашчлањене на ситне, нијансиране фрагменте, женска тела розе као руже, лила хаљине уроњене у љубичасте јорговане. И однекуд допире слатка мелодија виолина и звона.”

[Roman Clodia]

Shelved as short stories-still reading

The title story is extraordinary and shows what a superb writer Plath was even of prose - it's mesmeric, with some tonal notes from The Bell Jar but in a surreal key. Other stories I've read so far are a mixed bag and however much I'm still bridling at Ted Hughes dividing them, condescendingly, into 'the more successful short stories' and 'other stories', they are an uneven mix. All the same, Plath themes of gender, mental health, the suffocation of women's lives, moments of rebellion are all actively in play. I'm putting this on hold after reading about 100 pages - read Johnny Panic, for sure, some of the others are for Plath superfans and completists only.

[Leo · Rating 5 out of 5]

Borrowed a copy with a lot more novellas from Sylvia Plath with the same name on the collection as this. I'm happy to report that I loved her writing in this as well.
I've only been able to get hold of Johnny Panik and the Bible of dreams. Sylvia Plath is a person I love reading about but have an issue getting my little mittens on her works, but I found this and I was overjoyed. This was wonderful short story and I was a little sad it ended so soon.

[Miriam · Rating 3 out of 5]

Fucking Ted Hughes, man. The dick writes an introduction to this collection about how hard writing was for her and how bad she was at it. He takes his intimate knowledge of Plath's ideas and insecurities and uses it to criticize her work.

I'm not a literary scholar. I'm not a writer with a clear, developed sense about the purpose of a short story or what makes one "good." But I have read a lot. He calls one section the "more successful short stories and prose pieces," and then the other section "other stories." What a jack-ass. Plus there's a section of writings from her journals, which clearly show the agony it cost her to share her work and how much rejection and criticism pained her. Fine. I suppose all writers who want to be published have to try and get over that. But it seems like someone who loved this artist dearly and who clearly had the evidence of what the writing cost her emotionally (both in the pieces HE EDITED FOR THIS BOOK and probably in real life, too) could have picked some different words to describe her work in sections, other than as "more successful" (not even just successful, but better than the drivel in the Other section). Hughes does not clarify what makes the "other" stories less successful by implication. They were are PUBLISHED, so they can't have been that bad (that's at least an assumption about success that I could understand if not endorse). And the quotation on the back of this edition shows that other people adopted this prism for evaluating Plath's work here: the original review in The Guardian said that, here, even her deadends and mistakes are valuable for understanding her (eventual) talent. FUCK EVERYONE.

So the editing sucks and makes me angry. As for the stories, there are some evocative scenes. It's interesting to trace the evolution of the Widow Mangada from a journal piece to a short story. The story about sorority hazing was strong, if neatly tied by the end (*I* like short stories that are tied up neatly at the end, but if I am to understand what makes one "good" based on the many short stories I have read that are supposed to be "good," this is actually a weakness in a Ted Hughes world). The green rock story made me think of the shared but secret world of siblings. The Shadow would be worth teaching in a World War II class. Her comparison of novel writing and poetry writing I found very illuminating--the novelist has loads of space, the poet much less. They must do their work either to draw out or condense, and both are specific, relevant skills, and the condensing requires more of the writer. I found the collection worth reading, but I'm not too worried about hanging on to the book permanently.

[Janelle · Rating 3 out of 5]

This book is a collection of short stories, a couple of essays and some extracts from Sylvia Plath’s notebooks. I found it uneven in quality which is probably not unexpected, personally I think the notebook extracts were not necessary but they did add context for some of the stories and of course her poetry. (There’s a whole extract about beekeeping).
The common themes are all here :her need to write, the fear of losing her imagination and therefore the ability to write, dreams and nightmares, death , war(particularly internment of Germans in the US), parents and childhood, fitting in and the expectations for women’s behaviour.
The title story is amazing and the clear standout. “The Wishing Box” and “The Fifty-ninth Bear” are my next favourites.
Some wonderful writing with vivid imagery.

[Amanda NEVER MANDY · Rating 4 out of 5]

“It seems almost an incredible relief to know that there is someone outside oneself who is not happy all the time. We must be at low ebb when we are this far into the black: that everyone else, merely because they are ‘other,’ is invulnerable. That is a damn lie.”

This book contains short stories (20), essays (5), and notebook entries (5) by Sylvia Plath. It also contains an introduction done by Ted Hughes, the man who put together the book and released it after her death. The version of the book I read was a second edition that contained way more than the original release did.

TED HUGHES BULLSHIT:

“Sylvia Plath herself had certainly rejected several of the stories here, so they are printed against her better judgement. That must be taken into account. But in spite of the obvious weaknesses, they seem interesting enough to keep, if only as notes toward her inner autobiography.”

I can’t hate the above because he is acknowledging that she may not have wanted any of this released, and that he made the decision to do so. I am including it here because I feel it is important to note it.

“Nothing refreshed her more than sitting for hours in front of some intricate pile of things laboriously delineating each one. But that was also a helplessness. The blunt fact killed any power or inclination to rearrange it or see it differently. This limitation to actual circumstances, which is the prison of so much of her prose, became part of the solidity and truth of her later poems.”

I do hate the above because what he saw as a weakness was a core part of her process. I do see the merit in her ways. I see that she saw the world in vivid detail, and that by noting every aspect of it and putting it on paper, she was bringing forth a different view of everyday life for all to see. I do not feel it imprisoned her and/or her writing abilities at all.

OVERALL FEELINGS OF LIKE:

I love how she describes things. Her choice of adjectives. It speaks to me on so many levels. I can easily visualize what is described, and it is done in a way that I would never think of doing on my own.

“You could always tell where the best shells were—at the rim of the last wave, marked by a mascara of tar.”

I love the raw emotion. The exploration of deeper feelings put out on display for all to see. Those things we say to ourselves that we would never admit to, but are all guilty of thinking and/or feeling. They are mostly momentary and are very exaggerated, but they are ours.

“I hated babies. I who for two and a half years had been the center of a tender universe felt the axis wrench and a polar chill immobilize my bones. I would be a bystander, a museum mammoth. Babies!”

It also speaks to me as a person who loves over describing things and comparing them to other things that are equally over described. I can easily go off on a description tangent that has those around me praying for an interruption.

FAVORITE STORIES/ESSAYS/NOTES:

“Rose and Percy B” – The thing that stuck out was the book placed under the chin of a dead body, and what happened to it later.

“The end, even of so marginal a man, a horror.”

“A relief; this is the hostage for death, we are safe for the time being.”

“Day of Success” – I felt strongly this was taken from Plath’s life, an interaction involving Ted Hughes. The ending broke my heart because it felt like it was how she wanted it to end, and not how it really ended.

“Please don’t let it change, she begged of whatever fates might be listening. Let the three of us stay happy as this forever.”

“Sweetie Pie and The Gutter Men” – A dark little read involving children and the strange things they say. It has layers involving motherhood and things that aren’t said.

“Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams” – Of course the title story would appear on my list. It was a glimpse into a world of fantasy that I desperately wanted to explore further. The loss of what might have been, is very much apparent with this one.

“I’m a wormy hermit in a country of prize pigs so corn-happy they can’t see the slaughterhouse at the end of the track. I’m Jeremiah vision-bitten in the Land of Cockaigne.”

“His love is the twenty-story leap, the rope at the throat, the knife at the heart.

He forgets not his own.”

“Superman and Paula Brown’s New Snowsuit” – This one reminded me of a school playground swing story from my own youth. Kids suck. The ones who fuss first and/or fuss loudest beat the quiet ones to the adult listen.

“Among the Bumblebees” – A good dad will be your hero forever. The previous Plath (poetry) collection I read had an awesome closer, and this one is equal to that. Hughes had talent; I can’t argue that.

“She did not know then that in all the rest of her life there would be no one to walk with her, like him, proud and arrogant among the bumblebees.”

DARK QUOTES I LOVED:

“As from a star I saw, coldly and soberly, the separateness of everything. I felt the wall of my skin: I am I. That stone is a stone. My beautiful fusion with the things of this world was over.”

“The sun ran faster and faster around the world, and she knew that her grandparents would soon die, and that her mother would die, and that there would finally be left no familiar name to invoke against the dark.”

“Goodnight, sweet princess. You are still on your own; be stoic, don’t panic; get through this hell to the generous sweet overflowing giving love of spring.”

Four stars to a book that dipped a little into tedious at times, but not too deep.

[Anisha Inkspill · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is a collection of short stories, essays and notebook entries by Sylvia Plath. As a collection it doesn’t gel and seems disjointed but what it does do is give hints of how Plath’s writing style developed.

The story this collection is named after, Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams, has a narrator that feels like an earlier version of The Bell Jar.

The works are a mixture of dark, coming -of-age, matter of fact and light comedy. Some are less interesting than others, and I would have been less interested in those if I had not read two biographies about Sylvia Plath. This helped me to connect to this book:

In Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams Plath is cryptically sharing her own fears of having electric shock therapy. I also recognised Rose and Percy B is about her neighbours when she lived in Devon, England, with Ted Hughes. Other works also have a relevance in some way which would not have been obvious to me without reading the biographies.

What’s amazing about Sylvia Plath is in her short life how much she has written and the variety.

[Fatemeh · Rating 1 out of 5]

این کتاب رو قبلا خوانده بودم اما دوباره تو کتابخونه دیدمش و فهمیدم چیزی ازش یادم نی واسه همین تصمیم گرفتم یه شانس دوباره بهش بدم و چون کوتاه بود خیلی زمان نمی‌خواست .
به نظر من کتابی خوبه که حتی اگر داستان کتاب رو یادت رفت حس و حالی که موقع خوندن کتاب داشتی رو یادت بمونه،متاسفانه این کتاب از این نظر خیلی ضعیف بود چون حتی موقع خواندن دفعه دوم هم حسی نداشتم .
با اینکه خیلی سعی کردم روی جمله ها تمرکز کنم اما باز هم روند داستان رو نمیفهمیدم واسه همین اصلا دوستش نداشتم .

[Dustyn Hessie · Rating 4 out of 5]

I am sad to hear that people think “The Bell Jar” is a better work of art than this collection of short stories, calling it “lackluster” and “mediocre.” I think people read Plath’s short stories incorrectly. You have to really read into them in order to really grasp these stories. Not all of these stories are amazing, but some are incredibly unique, unlike any of the other short stories I’ve ever read. “The Bell Jar” was a fair piece of work, but there are plenty of authors who have exceeded her in the “explicit-depressive-novel” category (see: Fernando Pessoa, Celine (original translation), Sarte, etc.).

Lets take “Tongues of Stone” for example. In this story we follow a young woman who has a mental problem, and is eventually committed. We find out that she has this envy for nature: “She envied the green grasshoppers.” Because of her ability to observe nature closely, she exposes herself to one of her limitations as a human—the lack of freedom. Our protagonist’s disposition is: Why live if you are really, in fact, like a farce to all of these free creatures around you? When our protagonist attempts suicide, she expresses her malcontent with her very own nature; her “dumb instinct in her body that fought to go on living.”

Another one I really enjoy reading is “Superman and Paula Brown’s New Snowsuit,” which I think has that same kind of literary resonance. Except that in this one she touches on immortality. Superman was this metaphorical character, like a dreaming walking America in those years back America was basically Superman, seen as immortal. And she closes out this story strong too:

“I lay there alone in bed, feeling the black shadow creeping up the underside of the world like a flood tide. Nothing held, nothing was left. The silver airplanes and the silver capes all dissolved and vanished, wiped away like the crude drawings of a child in colored chalk from the colossal blackboard of the dark.”

“The Wishing Box,” “The Sunday at the Minton’s,” and “Among the Bumblebees,” are also some of my favorites from Plath’s collection of short stories. I can easily see Plath on that short fiction tier with the likes of Angela Carter, although seeing as though Plath had not lived a long life, that comparison is seemingly absurd. Ten more years and that would’ve been that!

Plath gets more creative in her short stories than she did in The Bell Jar. She even admitted herself that she did not want that particular novel to be representative of her work; it’s not clever, or even imaginary; it’s just sort of, well, there. In her short stories she creates some unlikable characters (according to some people) and puts them in their own little selfish hole of turmoil. From there, she builds worlds and manipulates them to elicit meaning.

If you want to read a poet who is similar to Plath, although not as dense, read Ingrid Jonker. She is so understated (and by the way, she committed suicide also). If you want to read someone who has that intense lyrical severity that Plath does, read Sarah Kane’s play 4:48 Psychosis (and by the way, she committed suicide also). If you want to read a memoir that is literary and very intelligent read Elizabeth Wurtzel’s Prozac Nation. I know it might sound ridiculous to some, but Wurtzel’s is a very gifted woman. Plath's prose is what brings me in. And these short stories bring out a little bit more of that, especially more than, say, "The Bar Jar" had.

[Ashley · Rating 5 out of 5]

I love the title story; it is by far my favorite. I just love how I feel like I'm tagging along silently next to her as she works in the medical office. Her words just roll off of the page here, and I can feel all of the hard work she put into making her descriptions perfect. I also feel immense envy, as I wish I'd written the story myself, so painfully real are her descriptions of her waking life.
Next up, I admire 'The Comparison' for its concise description of the differences between a novel and a poem. I think of all the stories compiled here, I go back and reread this one the most.
'Context' kind of falls into the same category as 'The Comparison' for me, but again, I do go back to this barely-more-than-one-page rumination quite a bit.
I enjoy all of the short stories that feel like they are real anecdotes from her childhood and adolescence, which of course they are. Namely among these I prefer, 'The Daughters of Blossom Street', 'Ocean 1212-W', and 'Snow Blitz'. Part 2: Other Stories carries on with more of these childhood centric rememberances.
Lasty, Parts 3 and 4 are a slightly different story; I conciously tend to avoid them, as we all know how her story ends. I really feel her reaching in these stories, and sometimes when I read them, all I can imagine is the perfectionistic writer beating her heart out trying to shape her life into beautiful prose.
More than any of her other books, I find this one the easiest to pick up and read time and again.

[panna.marple · Rating 5 out of 5]

Kolejny raz pióro Sylvii Plath dostarczyło mi to, co kocham: dużo morza i dużo smutku.
Było też dziwnie i wspaniale, przytłaczająco i jakby wyjęte prosto z mojej głowy.
Nigdy nie przestanę zachwycać się tym, co stworzyła.

[Edzia · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5/5, uwielbiam Sylvię 💚

[Jude St. Francis · Rating 3 out of 5]

POV:
شوهر عوضیت بهت خیانت کرده با یه زن دیگه، ولی وقتی میخوان ازت کتاب ترجمه و منتشر کنن داستان شوهرتو میچسبونن به داستان تو و چاپش میکنن. 🚬

[Libby · Rating 4 out of 5]

As a huge Sylvia Plath fan, this book was interesting to me for a multitude of reasons. Several of the stories, especially the title story, are fantastic stand-alone short stories without any previous knowledge of Plath's work. However, for me, the really interesting part of this was reading some shorter works and seeing themes and motifs that come up in her poetry and The Bell Jar, such as numerous references to Lazarus. Lady Lazarus is a masterpiece and one of, like, three poems that I can actually remember a sizeable chunk of. That was definitely interesting.
I felt like the journal excerpts were perhaps redundant given that there's a huge tome of Plath's journals published now. I did enjoy the few excerpts from when she studied at Cambridge, as well as the Cambridge-based short story, because it's my home and it's so lovely and slightly weird to think of one of my absolute favourite writers walking the same streets that I did.
Overall, an interesting collection that I think is important in establishing Plath as a significant writer and not just a poet hugely overshadowed by her suicide.

[Liisa · Rating 3 out of 5]

Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams is a wide collection of Sylvia Plath´s short stories and a few of her personal diary entries. My reading experience of it was quite the roller coaster, it has stories I absolutely adored, paragraphs that I read dozens of times and will read in the future, but most of the pieces were simply okay. Brilliantly written, yes, they just didn´t make feel much and some went way over my head - I couldn´t figure out what was the point of them. The stories started to feel very similar, Plath clearly has her own style in short story writing, which unfortunately didn´t amaze me apart from the few exceptions. I also wish there had been more extracts from Plath´s diaries. I found it extremely interesting to read about her life and thoughts. Though I was a bit confused with all the strange, unintroduced people that were mentioned, which is of course what you get from reading small bits of someones journal. So rating such a collection is quite hard and I ended up giving Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams pretty neutral three stars. I was never hating what I was reading and as I said, I came across some amazing examples of what astounding things can be achieved with words.

[Klaudia · Rating 4 out of 5]

bardzo ciekawe. nie do końca lubię zbiory opowiadań, a te naprawdę przypadły mi do gustu. podoba mi się ich ułożenie. świetny początek i końcówka, ale najbardziej poruszyły mnie wyimki z dziennika, co na pewno zachęca do przeczytania całych dzienników.
buziaki

[Александра · Rating 5 out of 5]

2⭐ - Камени дечак с делфином
3⭐ - Орао од петнаест долара, Ћерке улице Блосом, Педесет девети медвед, Мајке, Океан 1212-W, Поглед на Оксбоу, Колачић и лимар
3,5⭐ - У планинама
4⭐ - Џони Паника и Библија снова, Кутија за жеље, Снег у Лондону, Недеља код Минтонових, Супермен и ново зимско одело Поле Браун, Сви наши драги покојници, Једног дана у јуну, Језици од камена
5⭐ - Америко! Америко!, Дан када је умро господин Прескот, Поређење, Контекст, Иницијација, Дан успеха, Зелена стена, Међу бумбарима, Удовица Мангада, Сенка, Мери Вентура и Девето Краљевство

О свакој причи из ове прелепе збирке бих могла да причам сатима, ако не и данима, али у својим рецензијама не волим да претерујем у дужини. Оно што је заједничко већини прича јесте симбол мора и океана, људски односи, менталитет једног друштва, догађаји из детињства, носталгија, одрастање, а с времена на време појављују се и ситуације које говоре о положају жена и њиховим међусобним односима. Силвија делује као списатељица тренутака, јер успева да ухвати ситне мисли и догађаје које многи од нас доживе, али их ми нисмо могли тако дубоко анализирати и схватити њихову значајност за наш живот. Мислим да је овим причама Силвија успела управо то, а са тиме се свакодневно боре многи уметници.

[Jordan · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ignore the hideous, 90s, "multicultural" cover applied to this text in an effort to make classic female authors hip. Hard as it is, pull your eyes away from the horror.

Instead, focus on the meticulous, suffocating power of Ms. Plath's prose. Her poetry in Ariel and The Colossus and Other Poems evokes images of women scorned, scorched, and yet lulled into complacency and love by their micro-worlds.

The same is true here, but it's spelled out for you, in shocking detail. Plath gets you nice and comfy, with a hot toddy or a walk on a Spanish beach, and then she takes a baseball bat to your shins with a single line.

After Ted Hughes's informative-ominous introduction, the stories are published in descending order, from newest to oldest, all the way back to Plath's freshman year at Smith College. It's as if you are peeling away the layers of Plath's mind, and approaching the core of what makes her so brilliant. But you never quite get there.

I am especially fond of the titular story, Johnny Panic. An office assistant in a hospital compiles the dreams of psychiatric patients in the "Bible" of humanity's drive, the one true God, Johnny Panic. Our narrator hides her task, but discovery is imminent. And that discovery has all the blood and vinegar of a Flannery O'Connor novella.

I am also fond of Plath's nonfiction, her documentary "writing exercises" from her journals that catalog all of the minute details and idiosyncrasies of her neighbors, as well as all of her hate for them. Love, love, LOVE the darkness, the sarcasm, and the bile.

In all, a dark and variegated collection that will entertain a broad spectrum of readers. Yes, read The Bell Jar, because it's canonical and shocking. But also read this collection, the dark underbelly of her life's work.

Buy this title from Powell's Books.

[cristina⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5 ??

i love sylvia plath and loved some of these stories. every story on this list gets 5 stars, but the others i did not enjoy as much bring down the overall rating of the book.

standouts/personal faves:

“the daughters of blossom street”
billy was clearly doing sketchy things in the hospital throughout the entire story, but when he dies, the female workers of the hospital remember him as a hero. this shows how death and tragedy can change one’s entire perspective, perhaps as a coping mechanism.

“ocean 1212-w”
nostalgia and change described in the most accurate, somber way. “whereon those nine first years of my life sealed themselves off like a ship in a bottle - beautiful, inaccessible, obsolete, a fine, white flying myth”

“sunday at the mintons”
this story made me sickkkk. a perfect demonstration of the fear of domesticity and need for escape. it doesn’t even have to be marriage that locks someone up. it is devastating when the reader realizes that elizabeth’s inner desires of her brother dying and her flying to freedom are nothing but a daydream.

“cambridge notes”
she thinks exactly like me. “knowing i could not be big, refusing to be small” and “why is it that the man must so often take the lead? women can do so much” and “frozen inertia is my worst enemy; i get positively sick with doubt” and “if i sit and don’t do anything, the world goes on beating like a slack drum, without meaning” and more.

“the green rock”
this story reminds me of “ocean 1212-w,” as it deals with childhood nostalgia. a pair of siblings returns to the beach town where they grew up, only to find that it is not as magical or exciting as they remember it. it is inevitable that childhood happiness is lost as one grows up. “there was an emptiness that rose to meet them and a queer silence above the lapping of the waves. it was like entering a familiar room after a long absence and finding it vacant, desolate”.

“among the bumblebees”
as many of these stories are, this one is autobiographical. i love the way plath writes about grief. this story in particular deals with the loss of her father at a young age, before she was able to understand death or what was going on, which makes it even more devastating to read. “that was the last time that alice denway saw her father. she did not know then that in all the rest of her life there would be no one to walk with her, like him, proud and arrogant among the bumblebees”.

“tongues of stone”
possibly my favourite story in this collection. it seems to connect to the bell jar, written about plath’s time spent in a mental health facility. there are too many quotes that i loved in this story for me to type here, but she truly captures the feeling of hopelessness that nothing will ever get better and lying to others (“words that could begin a world: ‘i feel different. i feel quite different.’”) so they will think you are getting better. “she had long ago lost track of all the days and it really didn’t matter because one was like another and there were no nights to separate them because she never slept anymore. there was nothing to her now but the body, a dull puppet of skin and bone that had to be washed and fed day after day after day” and “hating the small insect because it seemed to have a creative place in the sun while she had none, but lay there like a parasitic gall on the face of the earth. she hated the sun too because it was treacherous. yet it was only the sun that talked to her still, for all the people had tongues of stone”.

“stone boy with dolphin”
the first chapter to plath’s unfinished novel “falcon yard”. i remember reading that she wanted her second novel to be a sort of sequel to “the bell jar” where, after the struggle comes the sunshine. this chapter captures that in an older coming of age way. “life is a tree with many limbs. choosing this limb, i crawl out for my bunch of apples. i gather unto me my winesaps, my coxes, my bramleys, my jonathans. such as i choose. or do i choose?” is a perfect sister quote to plath’s famous fig tree quote in the bell jar. esther greenwood worries that if she does not pick her branch (path in life) soon, the fruits will all fall and shrivel at her feet. dody ventura collects her fruit and wonders if she ever really had a choice in the first place. this novel died with plath and there is something haunting about that. she never healed and neither did this autobiographical protagonist. “i can take care of myself because when i give, i never really give at all. always some shrewd miser dody sits back, hugging the last, the most valuable crown jewel. always safe, nun-tending her statue. her winged stone statue with nobody’s face” and “black sky spaces spoke of the hugeness, the indifference of the universe. greaning pricks of stars told her how little they cared” and “how we pass and repass ourselves, never fusing, never solidifying into the perfect stances of our dreams” and “must shoulder the bundle, the burden of my dead selves until i, again, live” are just a few of my favourite quotes.

“above the oxbow”
i liked this, but not as much as the others on my favourites list. discusses how perspective plays a role in who is the “hero” and the “villain” in certain scenarios.

“the shadow”
i love when a story ends with the most haunting line: “‘i don’t think there is any god, then.’ i said dully, with no feeling of blasphemy. ‘not if such things can happen’”. this story deals with how prejudice affects small-minded people (which can actually be the majority of people), and “however such a breakdown of cause and effect may illuminate a sequence of events, it doesn’t alter the events”. told through a child’s eyes, it makes prejudice seem even more silly, as the child fails to understand why other people hate her just because her father is german. everyone around her uses this as an excuse to place blame on her for “bad behaviour”.

“sweetie pie and the gutter men”
it is clear that plath dealt with both the fear of domesticity and the desire to be loved/do what society expected of her (i get you, sylvia). in this story, a childless woman visits an old friend who is married with two children. the older child wreaks havoc while the husband is at work as an obstetrician and the wife stays home, tending to household duties. the protagonist thinks of the anaesthesia used during childbirth: “although erased from the mind’s surface, the pain was there, somewhere… deceived by the waters of lethe into coming back again, in all innocence, to conceive child after child! it was barbarous. it was a fraud dreamed up by men to continue the human race; reason enough for a woman to refuse childbearing altogether”. she also says, “‘you must be kept pretty much occupied just being a mother.’ she hadn’t meant to say ‘just’, which sounded disparaging, but there it was”. this shows plath’s desire to escape the patriarchy and continue to work, even after having children, at a time when women were expected to be “just” homemakers. i also love how plath titles her stories from just one line or concept in the story. “sweetie pie” is the eldest child’s doll who represents happiness in domesticity, although she is described to be a menace, just as the eldest child is herself. “the gutter men” that sweetie pie “knocks down” represent the dark side of this domestic life.

i love reading sylvia plath. it always gives me so much to think about.