Filed under: chronotopes, departure lounge, the sweet life | Tags: life, maturity, Nicholas Hughes, relationships, Silvia Plath, Ted Hughes
When the great poets Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes first met, Ted tried to kiss Sylvia and she bit him. They got married and had a son whom they named Nicholas. I guess Ted tried to bite other girls too and Sylvia was very jealous. When Nicholas was only one, she gassed herself in an oven – horror.
After his mother’s suicide, his father wrote that Nicholas’ eyes –
“Became wet jewels,
The hardest substance of the purest pain
As I fed him in his high white chair”.
Forty seven years later, Nicholas then a scientist living in Alaska, became depressed and took his life.
What an awful story. It makes me think Nicholas never got over the loss of his mother. Or that his dad must have treated him callously or abandoned him.
Following is a letter that Ted Hughes wrote to his son after visiting him in Alaska. In it Hughes offers to his son a sort of primer on how to manage in a life in which relationships are often times quite difficult. I’ve written a few notes on his text and then excerpted the letter below that.
Hughes describes how when we meet people we are usually meeting the protective layer that has formed to shield the vulnerable child inside that person. If you only meet the protective person, you may have a rough encounter; if, however, you meet the child inside, you will meet someone who is much like your own protected child inside. The child is the only real thing – and it is underdeveloped and hasn’t really ever lived. The protective shell takes over from the child at around the age of eight and the child becomes a prisoner to this new powerful alter ego. The only time people really live is when they suffer at which point their child is thrown out into the real world. The only thing people regret is that they didn’t live boldly enough, didn’t love enough.
Here is Hughes’ amazing letter:
When I came to Lake Victoria, it was quite obvious to me that in some of the most important ways you are much more mature than I am. . . . But in many other ways obviously you are still childish — how could you not be, you alone among mankind? It’s something people don’t discuss, because it’s something most people are aware of only as a general crisis of sense of inadequacy, or helpless dependence, or pointless loneliness, or a sense of not having a strong enough ego to meet and master inner storms that come from an unexpected angle. But not many people realise that it is, in fact, the suffering of the child inside them. Everybody tries to protect this vulnerable two three four five six seven eight year old inside, and to acquire skills and aptitudes for dealing with the situations that threaten to overwhelm it. So everybody develops a whole armour of secondary self, the artificially constructed being that deals with the outer world, and the crush of circumstances. And when we meet people this is what we usually meet. And if this is the only part of them we meet we’re likely to get a rough time, and to end up making ‘no contact’. But when you develop a strong divining sense for the child behind that armour, and you make your dealings and negotiations only with that child, you find that everybody becomes, in a way, like your own child. It’s an intangible thing. But they too sense when that is what you are appealing to, and they respond with an impulse of real life, you get a little flash of the essential person, which is the child. Usually, that child is a wretchedly isolated undeveloped little being. It’s been protected by the efficient armour, it’s never participated in life, it’s never been exposed to living and to managing the person’s affairs, it’s never been given responsibility for taking the brunt. And it’s never properly lived. That’s how it is in almost everybody. And that little creature is sitting there, behind the armour, peering through the slits. And in its own self, it is still unprotected, incapable, inexperienced. Every single person is vulnerable to unexpected defeat in this inmost emotional self. At every moment, behind the most efficient seeming adult exterior, the whole world of the person’s childhood is being carefully held like a glass of water bulging above the brim. And in fact, that child is the only real thing in them. It’s their humanity, their real individuality, the one that can’t understand why it was born and that knows it will have to die, in no matter how crowded a place, quite on its own. That’s the carrier of all the living qualities. It’s the centre of all the possible magic and revelation. What doesn’t come out of that creature isn’t worth having, or it’s worth having only as a tool — for that creature to use and turn to account and make meaningful. So there it is. And the sense of itself, in that little being, at its core, is what it always was. But since that artificial secondary self took over the control of life around the age of eight, and relegated the real, vulnerable, supersensitive, suffering self back into its nursery, it has lacked training, this inner prisoner. And so, wherever life takes it by surprise, and suddenly the artificial self of adaptations proves inadequate, and fails to ward off the invasion of raw experience, that inner self is thrown into the front line — unprepared, with all its childhood terrors round its ears. And yet that’s the moment it wants. That’s where it comes alive — even if only to be overwhelmed and bewildered and hurt. And that’s where it calls up its own resources — not artificial aids, picked up outside, but real inner resources, real biological ability to cope, and to turn to account, and to enjoy. That’s the paradox: the only time most people feel alive is when they’re suffering, when something overwhelms their ordinary, careful armour, and the naked child is flung out onto the world. That’s why the things that are worst to undergo are best to remember. But when that child gets buried away under their adaptive and protective shells—he becomes one of the walking dead, a monster. So when you realise you’ve gone a few weeks and haven’t felt that awful struggle of your childish self — struggling to lift itself out of its inadequacy and incompetence — you’ll know you’ve gone some weeks without meeting new challenge, and without growing, and that you’ve gone some weeks towards losing touch with yourself. The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the only thing people regret is that they didn’t live boldly enough, that they didn’t invest enough heart, didn’t love enough. Nothing else really counts at all.
Ted Hughes letter to his son Nicholas Hughes
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