Reading....Sylvia Plath

Although I read The Bell Jar in high school, my Sylvia Plath obsession didn't hit hard until my late teens and early twenties. It was around the same time I started wearing a lot of black and had a brief, disgusting fling with smoking cigarettes. Thankfully, it was relatively short lived and I must say that I'm glad those days are over. It's much more pleasant not having to pretend to know everything or to wallow in the throes of post-adolescent angst. Even so, I still have to admit to an enduring admiration for Plath's brilliant poetry and a fascination (albeit a slightly morbid one) with her strange, disturbing, tragic life. A few days ago, I read that Plath's son, Nicholas Hughes, a science professor in Alaska, tragically committed suicide last week, after a long battle with depression. When you think of the horrors that family has had to endure, it's almost unbearable. I hadn't realized that Ted Hughes mistress, Assia Wevill, also killed herself and their daughter, Shura, in a sort of copycat version of Plath's own suicide. Really, very dramatic, depressing stuff. Critics like to point out that Plath's talent was not that great, but that the public has a morbid fascination with her biography. Even though I concede that her tumultuous relationship with Hughes and her ultimate suicide certainly created the cult status she holds with angsty adolescents, I think it's unfair to view her solely in that light, rather than as the brilliant poet that she actually was.

I hadn't read Plath in years. In fact, a few months ago when I was sorting through some old books, I almost sent a volume of poetry and The Complete Journals of Sylvia Plath to the thrift store where I donate my old stuff. For some reason, I held on to them, and I'm glad I did. I've been flipping through these books the past few days and while they are disturbing and frightening (perhaps largely because they can't really be read in isolation, without the taint of knowing the tragic outcome of her life), I still find them very intriguing. Especially her poetry. It is through her poetry that her real, raw talent shines brightest. This was my favorite poem, back in those bohemian days of shunning love and marriage (again, so glad that's over :) !)

I really loved the movie, Sylvia, when it came out, although I haven't seen it in years. Gwyneth Paltrow is one of my favorite modern actresses and I think that with her cool reserve, sophistication, and obvious intelligence, she was ideally suited for this part. Daniel Craig played the part of Ted Hughes. In spite of the sad story, the movie was strangely beautiful. And even though I run the risk of sounding amazingly shallow, I just loved the literary chic costumes in this movie.