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'Daddy' Analysis by Sylvia Plath
'Daddy' Analysis by Sylvia Plath
someone
elses
body.
It
also
makes
me
quite
astonishingly
calm
at
the
thought
of
death:
I
know
whom
I
would
die
to
protect
and
I
also
understand
that
nobody
but
a
lugubrious
serf
can
possibly
wish
for
a
father
who
never
goes
away.
Plath
has
the
worst
of
both
worlds:
her
father
was
oppressive
when
he
was
alive
(she
felt
Barely
daring
to
breathe
or
Achoo,
the
latter
act
perhaps
angrily
discouraged
by
an
entomologist
father
worried
about
his
specimens),
but
then
died
with
such
abruptness
and
bad
timing
that
his
daughter
was
left
traumatised.
Daddy
is
an
attempt
to
resurrect
repressed
memories
and
then
expunge
them.
The
first
stanza
establishes
the
pattern
of
childlike
repetition
(You
do
not
do,
you
do
not
do)
and
infant
reference
(beginning
with
The
Old
Woman
Who
Lived
In
a
Shoe).
The
Plath
household
was
quite
a
bit
better
than
the
shoe
of
the
childhood
nursery
rhyme;
unlike
the
Old
Womans
offspring,
Sylvia
and
her
brother
Warren
had
more
to
eat
than
just
broth
without
bread.
The
illusion
works
in
both
verses
the
father
is
absent
but
it
is
merely
the
first
of
Plaths
many
towers
of
self-pity.
To
the
infant
Plath,
Daddy
was
a
near-immovable
(Marble-heavy),
ghastly
statue
stretching
across
the
United
States,
with
that
infected
foot
in
San
Francisco
(Frisco
in
local
parlance)
and
his
head
in
the
freakish
Atlantic
off
the
coast
of
New
England,
where
the
Plath
children
were
raised.
The
reference
to
beautiful
Nauset,
an
area
encompassing
parts
of
modern-day
Connecticut,
Rhode
Island
and
Massachusetts
and
once
inhabited
by
the
Nauset
or
Cape
Cod
Indians,
evokes
a
lost
paradise,
something
wild
and
savage
and
now
extinct.
(Just
to
the
southwest
of
Nauset
is
New
York,
the
setting
of
F.
Scott
Fitzgeralds
novel
The
Great
Gatsby,
which
ends
with
the
narrator
musing
on
the
old
island
that
flowered
once
for
Dutch
sailors
eyes--a
fresh,
green
breast
of
the
New
World.)
The
Nauset
people
had
their
myths
and
monsters;
and
just
as
they
were
slowly
decimated
by
white
Europeans,
so
Plaths
Christian
faith
is
killed
by
the
death
of
her
father
I
used
to
pray
to
recover
you.
This
profession
of
godlessness
is
immediately
followed
by
the
first
use
of
the
German
tongue
Ach,
du:
Oh,
you.
Like
Plath,
Hitchens
could
trace
his
family
history
to
an
area
of
what
was
once
German
Prussia
and
is
now
Poland,
a
town
that
was
indeed,
Scraped
flat
by
the
roller
/
Of
wars,
wars,
wars.
The
history
of
Poland
in
the
first
half
of
the
20th
century
is
one
of
pogroms,
appalling
conflict,
acrimonious
and
opportunistic
land
grabs
and
shifting
borders,
in
which
the
Polish
people
were
not
always
innocent
victims:
a
fitting
background
for
a
woman
who
was
often
at
war
with
herself.
The
land
to
the
east
of
the
Oder
and
Neisse
(the
rivers
that
today
form
the
German-Polish
border)
was
the
setting
for
the
start
of
the
Second
World
War.
In
1918,
following
its
defeat
in
the
Great
War,
Germany
had
been
forced
to
cede
much
of
this
territory
and
its
rich
soil
to
the
new
Polish
state,
which
had
barely
Education
Umbrella,
2014
caught
its
breath
before
going
to
war
with
Lithuania
and
Bolshevik
Russia
over
lingering
territorial
disputes.
Having
seen
off
its
neighbours,
Poland
would
enjoy
less
than
two
decades
of
independence
before
embittered
Germans,
led
by
Adolf
Hitler,
began
talking
of
the
need
for
Lebensraum
living
space
for
them
and
the
superior
German
people.
On
the
1st
of
September,
1939,
Nazi
Germany,
under
the
false
pretext
of
Polish
aggression,
launched
the
last
and
most
terrible
of
those
wars,
wars,
wars.
Had
he
not
emigrated
from
his
native
Germany
to
the
United
States
in
1900
at
the
age
of
15,
Otto
Plath
may
well
have
become
the
Nazi
his
daughter
Sylvia
imagines
him
to
be.
Otto
was
born
in
the
German
town
of
Grabow,
120
miles
northwest
of
Berlin.
Grabow
is
a
Slavic
name,
and
is
indeed
common
in
Poland
there
are
perhaps
not
a
dozen
or
two,
but
enough
to
confuse
someone
researching
family
heritage
without
the
benefit
of
Google
maps.
Thus,
Daddy
is
not
only
absent
from
the
present,
he
is
also
illusive
in
the
past;
and
Plath
cleverly
weds
this
blurred
genealogy
to
the
idea
that
her
fathers
stern
discipline
was
innate:
one
cant
help
but
insert
down
after
foot
in
the
line
I
never
could
tell
where
you/
Put
your
foot,
your
root.
Why,
though,
does
Plath
refer
to
her
Polish
friend
by
the
derogatory
term
Polack?
Read
out
of
context
the
line
appears
absurd,
but
it
is
rendered
ironic
six
lines
later
by
the
overt
hostility
that
Plath
displays
towards
Polands
great
western
nemesis:
I
never
could
talk
to
you.
The
tongue
stuck
in
my
jaw.
It
stuck
in
a
barb
wire
snare.
Ich,
ich,
ich,
ich,
I
could
hardly
speak.
I
thought
every
German
was
you.
And
the
language
obscene
In
The
Bell
Jar,
her
only
novel,
Plath
writes,
My
mother
spoke
German
during
her
childhood
in
America
and
was
stoned
for
it
during
the
First
World
War
by
the
children
at
school
each
time
I
picked
up
a
German
dictionary
or
a
German
book,
the
very
sight
of
those
dense,
black,
barbed-wire
letters
made
my
mind
shut
like
a
clam.
The
Bell
Jar,
like
Daddy,
was
only
semi-autobiographical,
but
the
link
is
telling
enough.
Plath,
then,
is
torn:
she
wants
to
talk
to
her
father,
but
hates
his
native
tongue,
as
much
for
its
apparent
aesthetic
and
audible
inelegance
as
the
fact
that
throughout
her
childhood
it
was
the
language
of
the
enemy.
Having
thus
taken
us
back
to
German
Prussia,
the
self-pitying
pinnacle
of
the
poem
is
inevitable:
An
engine,
an
engine
Chuffing
me
off
like
a
Jew.
A
Jew
to
Dachau,
Auschwitz,
Belsen.
I
began
to
talk
like
a
Jew.
I
think
I
may
well
be
a
Jew.
A
touch
melodramatic,
yes,
but
at
least
not
wholly
fanciful;
there
was
a
sizable
Jewish
community
in
German
Grabow
prior
to
the
rise
of
the
Nazis.
One
of
the
Platts
(Otto
changed
his
name
to
Plath
upon
arrival
in
New
York
City,
pre-
empting
the
British
Royal
family,
who
waited
until
the
First
World
War
before
changing
their
surname
to
hide
their
German
heritage)
may
have
suffered
the
fate
that
Hitler
warned
of
in
Mein
Kampf:
The
black-haired
Jewish
youth
lies
in
wait
for
hours
on
end,
satanically
glaring
at
and
spying
on
the
unsuspicious
girl
whom
he
plans
to
seduce,
adulterating
her
blood
and
removing
her
from
the
bosom
of
her
own
people.
Hitlers
rambling
autobiography
isnt
quite
as
Jew
heavy
as
one
might
expect,
but
Plaths
repetition
of
the
word
does
work
well
as
both
a
sly
rhyme
with
you
and
an
invocation
of
those
endless
Bavarian
beer-
hall
discussions
of
der
Judenfrage
the
Jewish
question.
Godwins
law
states
that
the
longer
a
discussion
goes
on,
the
more
likely
someone
will
resort
to
a
comparison
to
Hitler
or
the
Nazis.
Plath
made
it
to
the
seventh
stanza
of
her
16-stanza
poem
before
unleashing
the
National
Socialist
German
Workers
Party;
and
once
the
(ahem)
train
had
left
the
station,
she
couldnt
stop.
First
we
get,
the
snows
of
the
Tyrol
(a
mountainous
region
that
straddled
southern
Austria
and
northern
Italy);
the
clear
beer
of
Vienna
(the
capital
of
Austria,
where
Hitler
lived
for
eight
years
from
the
age
of
15
and
where,
having
been
rejected
by
the
citys
renowned
art
university,
his
fascistic
and
anti-Semitic
worldview
began
to
form),
neither
of
which
are
pure
or
true
(unlike
the
bloodline
of
the
German
people);
and
an
unspecified
gipsy
ancestress
(just
in
case
the
Nazis
should
doubt
Plaths
racial
impurity).
Next
comes
the
Luftwaffe
(the
German
air
force);
her
fathers
neat
mustache
(not
a
reference
to
Charlie
Chaplin)
and
Aryan
eye,
bright
blue
(Daddy
did
indeed
have
a
mustache
and
blue
eyes:
poster
features
for
Nazi
race
myths);
and
the
German
armys
staple
tank,
the
panzer
Panzer
man.
The
next
stanza
begins
with
the
ambiguous
line,
Not
God
but
a
swastika
/
So
black
no
sky
could
squeak
through.
Is
Plath
cancelling
out
her
earlier
line,
a
bag
full
of
God?
Or
is
she
referring
to
Hitlers
attempts
to
usurp
the
role
of
the
almighty?
Theres
no
time
to
dwell
on
it,
for
the
next
line
is
the
first
and
only
intimation
of
Sylvias
mother,
who,
like
every
woman,
adores
a
Fascist
/
The
boot
in
the
face.
Aurelia
Plath,
ne
Schober,
was
a
student
of
Ottos
at
Boston
University.
The
daughter
of
Austrian
immigrants,
she
married
Otto
in
Reno,
Nevada
at
the
age
of
25.
Her
new
husband,
with
his
ominous
Gestapo
footwear
and
his
Brute
/
brute
heart,
was
46.
The
Nazi
analogy
is
less
about
Ottos
German
heritage
than
about
something
hypnotically
powerful
and
colossal
withering
to
dust.
Like
Otto
Plath,
the
Third
Reich
died
a
quick
and
emphatic
death:
Dachau,
Auschwitz
and
Belsen
were
liberated;
the
Luftwaffe
and
the
panzers
were
destroyed;
the
myths
of
Aryan
superiority
were
debunked;
the
swastika
was
exposed
as
a
cheap
forgery;
central
Europes
great
fascist
corridor
crumbled;
and
that
man
with
the
neat
Education
Umbrella,
2014
mustache
and
the
Meinkampf
look
blew
his
brains
out
in
a
bunker
in
Berlin
as
the
Red
Army
closed
in.
Hitler
was
the
gangrenous,
gray
toe
of
Germany.
His
popularity
may
have
seemed
immense,
but
the
villagers
never
liked
him;
indeed,
during
the
war
he
escaped
several
assassination
attempts
by
people
in
his
own
party.
They
never
got
to
drive
a
stake
through
his
heart,
or
dance
and
stamp
on
his
corpse
(though
the
latter
ignominy
did
befall
Benito
Mussolini,
the
dictator
of
Fascist
Italy,
very
much
the
junior
partner
in
the
Axis
alliance),
but
in
May
1945,
as
they
surveyed
their
wrecked
country,
Germans
knew
that
Hitler
was
to
blame,
just
as
Plath
knows
that
her
tragic
love
life
(to
which
we
are
coming)
is
the
fault
of
her
father.
From
the
eleventh
stanza
onwards
the
message
becomes
more
black
and
white
or
rather,
black
and
red,
the
colours
of
Nazi
insignia:
You
stand
at
the
blackboard,
daddy,
In
the
picture
I
have
of
you,
A
cleft
in
your
chin
instead
of
your
foot
But
no
less
a
devil
for
that,
no
not
Any
less
the
black
man
who
Bit
my
pretty
red
heart
in
two.
In
The
Bell
Jar
the
narrator,
Esther
Greenwood,
writes,
My
German-speaking
father,
dead
since
I
was
nine,
came
from
some
manic-depressive
hamlet
in
the
black
heart
of
Prussia.
As
well
as
being
a
German
speaker
from
Prussia,
Otto
had
a
cleft
in
his
chin,
an
indentation
that,
Plath
suggests,
would
have
worked
better
in
his
foot.
Its
not
enough
that
her
father
had
to
have
his
foot
amputated;
he
needed
to
be
cloven-hoofed
as
well.
If,
then,
daddy
is
a
Nazi
devil,
why
did
Plath
try
to
kill
herself
at
age
20
in
order
to
get
back,
back,
back
to
him?
Does
she,
like
her
mother,
adore
a
Fascist?
It
would
appear
so.
Having
being
glued
back
together
by
a
combination
of
electro-shock
therapy,
counselling
and
anti-depressants,
Plath
in
1956
married
the
poet
and
author
Ted
Hughes,
a
man
in
black
with
a
Meinkampf
look.
Again,
the
latter
comparison
is
not
to
be
taken
literally;
Fascists
tend
not
to
make
great
childrens
writers,
as
Hughes
was.
Like
Otto,
Hughes
was
not
a
zealously
right-wing
nationalist,
but
he
was
capable
of
brutish
behaviour
worthy
of
those
black-
booted
goose-steppers.
When
Plath
said
I
do,
I
do
to
Hughes,
her
Oedipal
wanderings
were
complete.
She
had
found
the
man
to
torture
her.
Six
years
after
their
marriage,
Plath,
now
a
mother
of
two
and
resident
in
London,
discovered
that
her
husband
was
a
vampire
who
had
been
drinking
her
blood
for
Seven
years:
Ted
had
been
having
an
affair
with
(ironically
enough)
a
German
woman
who
had
escaped
the
Nazis
by
fleeing
to
British-mandated
Palestine
(land
that
in
1948
would
become
the
state
of
Israel).
The
couple
separated;
and
Plath
moved
with
their
two
children
to
a
flat
at
23
Fitzroy
Road
in
the
Primrose
Hill
area
of
London,
where
the
poem
and
her
life
terminate.
Education
Umbrella,
2014
Plaths
final
dwelling
is
notable
for
two
reasons.
First,
it
had
no
telephone.
(The
black
telephones
off
at
the
root,
/
The
voices
just
cant
worm
through.)
Second,
it
had
once
been
the
home
of
the
Irish
poet
William
Butler
Yeats,
an
omen
that
Plath
considered
propitious.
On
the
11th
of
February,
1963,
as
she
turned
on
the
flats
gas
oven
and
placed
her
head
inside,
Plath
may
have
pictured
her
bastard
husband/father
while
contemplating
the
second
stanza
of
Yeats
poem
Easter
1916:
That
womans
days
were
spent
In
ignorant
good-will,
Her
nights
in
argument
Until
her
voice
grew
shrill.
What
voice
more
sweet
than
hers
When,
young
and
beautiful,
She
rode
to
harriers?
This
man
had
kept
a
school
And
rode
our
winged
horse;
This
other
his
helper
and
friend
Was
coming
into
his
force;
He
might
have
won
fame
in
the
end,
So
sensitive
his
nature
seemed,
So
daring
and
sweet
his
thought.
This
other
man
I
had
dreamed
A
drunken,
vainglorious
lout.
He
had
done
most
bitter
wrong
To
some
who
are
near
my
heart,
Yet
I
number
him
in
the
song
He,
too,
has
been
changed
in
his
turn,
Transformed
utterly:
A
terrible
beauty
is
born.