Last year, around Halloween, I wrote a blog post on literary ghosts I'd LOVE to be visited by, and I mentioned a bunch of sweethearts. If interested whom exactly, you can check it out here:
This year, I wanted to revisit the idea - well, the dark side of the idea, to be specific - to list a few writers - now ghosts or spirits - I'd NEVER want to see loiter, loom, or lurk around my home. Like ever.
Before I unveil my list, let me just get one thing straight: the list wasn't constructed by literary merit, I actually find all participants of today's little party fascinating...to read. But based on what I've read about them, I wouldn't want to meet (let alone interact) with them, for they, as humans (according to the myths and legends their personae are wrapped into) they may not have been... you know... the very best. No shade to anyone, this is just my very subjective, personal take!
Alright, moving on, let's see (or not see for we actually want to avoid them) whom we've got today:
1.) The Very Destructive Spirits: Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes
If you've been around for a while, you know of my complicated feelings about these two. I have a whole rant (my longest post so far) about Plath and Hughes and their inescapable and destructive relationship - rather soaked than sprinkled - with jealousy, disloyalty and unstable and explosive behaviour. I cannot unread all I've learned about them from reading Ariel: The Restored Edition by Plath and Birthday Letters by Hughes side-by-side. And while I do have massive respect for their magnum opus (though somewhat less than massive in Hughes's case - if I'm being completely honest), I would not wish for all those negative energies (FIGHTS) to enter my home. Please do not haunt me, thank you very much.
Check out my post about them for more details, some reasoning and much furious fuming here:
2.) The Even More Destructive Spirits: The Fitzgeralds
If I think about it, it might have been the era they were born into: The Jazz Age. The age that is actually my absolute favourite one - and not just for the fashion, but also for the music and all that vigour. However, The Jazz Age was also the time when alcohol had such an extreme chokehold on people (seemingly moreso than normal? - at least according to the media. Is it true? I'm not sure.) Having lived through the jazz era, F. Scott Fitzgerald was hospitalized with alcoholism multiple times, but that unfortunately did not stop him from stealing the work of his wife and publishing parts of it as his own. As Zelda writes in a review of The Beautiful and Damned (a novel by her husband):
'Mr. Fitzgerald—I believe that is how he spells his name—seems to believe that plagiarism begins at home.'
Zelda wasn't a saint either, don't get me wrong, dealing with her mental instability must have put huge pressure on her husband, but that's hardly an excuse for many-many things he did. Their grand-daughter, Eleanor Lanahan writes about their love letters and all the details mentioned above here:
Read about them!: https://lithub.com/behind-the-myths-of-scott-and-zeldas-epic-romance/
4.) The Politically Very Questionable One: Ezra Pound
Ezra Pound had tremendous importance when it comes to American modernism, it's unfortunate therefore that he decided to go over to Italy and so jollily promote his fascist views on live radio. Should we exclude him from books (- or history)? Some say yes. Feeling so entitled to lead the public must have meant a huge ego, my guess is that quite up to the level of a self-appointed messiah. And while I only love modern poetry, and his most famous prose poem:
In a Station of the Metro
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
...which was something very new in America when it first got published in 1913, it does not erase the pain Pound caused - stirred - in Italy.
5.) The Very Manly Man: Ernest Hemingway
There's something undeniably fascinating about Hemingway's prose, but he is often thought to be very 'manly' in style, and I don't love very 'manly' men. My experience is that it tends to mean a toxic detachment from one's feelings and in that case nah, we are certainly not meant to spend time together. What would we converse about? Whiskey?
6.) The Duel-obsessed, Bloodthirsty and/or potentially Murderer One: Alexander Pushkin
Pushkin. C'mon. What was your problem? There are different stories circulating as to how many duels Pushkin participated in exactly (the number seems to be around 25-26!), but whatever the truth might be, in retrospect, he does seem to have been of a fighting spirit. And hence not someone I would wish to see lurk, loiter, and loom around my bed at Halloween. (Or at any other time, for that matter.)
Although I find it unclear whether he actually killed someone, he was killed in a duel in 1836 - something I presume those who knew him must have seen coming. I just cannot fathom how he after his 25th duel must have been like: 'Yes, let's keep doing this, this sounds like a good idea, it shall be alright... right...?'
To be fair, even though his spirit wouldn't be welcomed in my home, he is one of Russia's most renowned poets and is someone I've always LOVED reading; Tatiana's letter will be forever and ever very precious to my heart.
This is your lucky day because although Onegin has been translated many times, and not all translations are in the public domain, the Gutenberg Project's version is - thanks to the dear Henry Spalding translating it. So, let me share Tatiana's letter to Onegin, her declaration of love (and we LOVE a princess who has the guts to make the first move):
Tatiana's letter to Onegin:
I write to you! Is more required? Can lower depths beyond remain? ’Tis in your power now, if desired, To crush me with a just disdain. But if my lot unfortunate You in the least commiserate You will not all abandon me. At first, I clung to secrecy: Believe me, of my present shame You never would have heard the name, If the fond hope I could have fanned At times, if only once a week, To see you by our fireside stand, To listen to the words you speak, Address to you one single phrase And then to meditate for days Of one thing till again we met. ’Tis said you are a misanthrope, In country solitude you mope, And we—an unattractive set— Can hearty welcome give alone. Why did you visit our poor place? Forgotten in the village lone, I never should have seen your face And bitter torment never known. The untutored spirit’s pangs calmed down By time (who can anticipate?) I had found my predestinate, Become a faithful wife and e’en A fond and careful mother been. Another! to none other I My heart’s allegiance can resign, My doom has been pronounced on high, ’Tis Heaven’s will and I am thine. The sum of my existence gone But promise of our meeting gave, I feel thou wast by God sent down My guardian angel to the grave. Thou didst to me in dreams appear, Unseen thou wast already dear. Thine eye subdued me with strange glance, I heard thy voice’s resonance Long ago. Dream it cannot be! Scarce hadst thou entered thee I knew, I flushed up, stupefied I grew, And cried within myself: ’tis he! Is it not truth? in tones suppressed With thee I conversed when I bore Comfort and succour to the poor, And when I prayer to Heaven addressed To ease the anguish of my breast. Nay! even as this instant fled, Was it not thou, O vision bright, That glimmered through the radiant night And gently hovered o’er my head? Was it not thou who thus didst stoop To whisper comfort, love and hope? Who art thou? Guardian angel sent Or torturer malevolent? Doubt and uncertainty decide: All this may be an empty dream, Delusions of a mind untried, Providence otherwise may deem— Then be it so! My destiny From henceforth I confide to thee! Lo! at thy feet my tears I pour And thy protection I implore. Imagine! Here alone am I! No one my anguish comprehends, At times my reason almost bends, And silently I here must die— But I await thee: scarce alive My heart with but one look revive; Or to disturb my dreams approach Alas! with merited reproach. ’Tis finished. Horrible to read! With shame I shudder and with dread— But boldly I myself resign: Thine honour is my countersign!
And the same text, this time on a picture:
Similarly, I'm actually a huge fan of the aria from Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin too. There's a version on Youtube - Anna Netrebko's - that I particularly adore: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d56MMagyMXs
No one can convey suffering the way Russian artists can...
Points of resources on Pushkin:
I found Lazhechnikov's description of him (the one that prompted the AI picture) in an article written by Georgy Manaev whose piece I enjoyed thoroughly, and which you can enjoy too here:
Also, here are two additional resources you might find interesting if you want to read about Pushkin and his duels:
You can find the wholeness of Onegin on the Gutenberg Project's site here: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/23997/23997-h/23997-h.htm
And for Halloween? Well, let's hope for the best! None of these spirits would choose to haunt me, but even if they wanted to... Just don't. Please. Just. Don't.
Anyway. Enjoy your Halloween, Everyone!
See you soon and hugs from the Fearless Frock.:)
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