I dagens understreckare recenserar Axel Englund en ny biografi om den amerikanska poeten
Anne Sexton. Hon föddes i Massachusetts 1928 och dog för egen hand 1974, 45 år gammal.
Anne Sexton gick under många år i samtalsterapi och som minnesstöd för Anne Sexton spelades samtalen in under flera år.
Dessa band har fått förnyad aktualitet när de nu använts av
Dawn M Skorczewski i den nyutkomna biografin
An Accident of Hope: The Therapy Tapes of Anne Sexton.
Axel Englund drar intressanta paralleller mellan generationskamraterna Betty Draper ( i TV - serien Mad Men) och Anne Sexton. Båda upplevde samma svårigheter att leva upp till hemmafruidealet.
Båda drabbas av förlossingsdepression och tvingas söka psykiatrisk hjälp. Anne Sexton träffar då på doktor Martin Orne som först uppmanar henne att börja skriva lyrik. Det är också Orne som initierar inspelningarna och anteckningarna eftersom han förstår att AS inte minns vad som avhandlats i tidigare samtal. En mycket okonventionellt och lyckosam metod både för terapin och Sextonforskningen.
Axel Englund tycker att hemmafruidealet har en kuslig aktualitet idag vilket man också kan bli varse om man läser Anne Sextons obekväma dikter som kom ut för ett halvt sekel sedan.
Self in 1958
What is reality?
I am a plaster doll; I pose
with eyes that cut open without landfall or nightfall
upon some shellacked and grinning person,
eyes that open, blue, steel, and close.
Am I approximately an I. Magnin transplant?
I have hair, black angel,
black angel-stuffing to comb,
nylon legs, luminous arms
and some advertised clothes.
I live in a doll’s house
with four chairs,
a counterfeit table, a flat roof
and a big front door.
Many have come to such a small crossroad.
There is an iron bed,
(Life enlarges, life takes aim)
a cardboard floor,
windows that flash open on someone’s city,
and little more.
Someone plays with me,
plants me in the all-electric kitchen,
Is this what Mrs. Rombauer said?
Someone pretends with me –
I am walled in solid by their noise –
or puts me upon their straight bed.
They think I am me!
Their warmth? Their warmth is not a friend!
They pry my mouth for their cups of gin
and their stale bread.
What is reality
to this synthetic doll
who should smile, who should shift gears,
should spring the doors open in a wholesome disorder,
and have no evidence of ruin or fears?
But I would cry,
rooted into the wall that
was once my mother,
if I could remember how
and if I had the tears.
Self in 1958
What is reality?
I am a plaster doll; I pose
with eyes that cut open without landfall or nightfall
upon some shellacked and grinning person,
eyes that open, blue, steel, and close.
Am I approximately an I. Magnin transplant?
I have hair, black angel,
black angel-stuffing to comb,
nylon legs, luminous arms
and some advertised clothes.
I live in a doll’s house
with four chairs,
a counterfeit table, a flat roof
and a big front door.
Many have come to such a small crossroad.
There is an iron bed,
(Life enlarges, life takes aim)
a cardboard floor,
windows that flash open on someone’s city,
and little more.
Someone plays with me,
plants me in the all-electric kitchen,
Is this what Mrs. Rombauer said?
Someone pretends with me –
I am walled in solid by their noise –
or puts me upon their straight bed.
They think I am me!
Their warmth? Their warmth is not a friend!
They pry my mouth for their cups of gin
and their stale bread.
What is reality
to this synthetic doll
who should smile, who should shift gears,
should spring the doors open in a wholesome disorder,
and have no evidence of ruin or fears?
But I would cry,
rooted into the wall that
was once my mother,
if I could remember how
and if I had the tears.
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