[T]he point of anguish at which my mother killed herself was taken over by strangers, possessed and reshaped by them… It was as if the clay from her poetic energy was taken up and versions of my mother made out of it, invented to reflect only the inventors, as if they could possess my real, actual mother, now a woman who has ceased to resemble herself in those other minds. – Frieda Hughes
The violence and fury in Plath's later poetry
seemed unnerving and unladylike to many of her editors in 1963. Before the
decade ended, it would find a ready audience among angry young feminists
striving to cast off patriarchal limitations. Plath's suicide became the
defining moment of her life: the Ariel poems
became incantations written in her blood, verses which simultaneously captured
and drove her to self-immolation. Many of her devotees saw Hughes as a male
oppressor who had callously driven her to her end: his editing of her poetry
and tight control over her journals after her death was seen as a final
betrayal by a black-hearted scoundrel.
Her mythology has inspired scholarly attention
as much as her poetry. After studying the lives of over 2,000 creative luminaries,
psychologist James Kaufman found that female poets had a particularly elevated
risk of mental illness, psychiatric hospitalization and suicide attempts: he
dubbed this "the Sylvia Plath effect." (Other researchers have pointed to problems with this and similar studies, noting issues with selection bias, controls that are not blinded, reliance on biographies that might play up mental illness, retrospective designs and unclear definitions of creativity). Like Goethe's young Werther and Chateaubriand's René, Plath has become an icon
of the brilliant but tormented soul too delicate for this world. But while
Werther and René were fictional (or thinly fictionalized) creations, Plath was
a flesh-and-blood person whose death left behind a legacy and a family.
It is tempting to see the final Ariel poems as the cause and product of
her self-immolation. Perhaps the real tragedy is that Plath died at the height
of her creative powers. What might she have created had she been been able to
pull herself through that miserable London winter and gone on to write poems
not about her self-destruction but about her survival? Instead of romanticizing
what her depression gave us, we might do better to mourn what it took away.
Plath had little tolerance for "beats"
and alternative lifestyles and strove (however uncomfortably) to fulfill her
society's expectations as a wife and mother. Would she have become an icon if
she and Hughes had reconciled and she spent the rest of her life writing about
family and motherhood from a British suburb? Alas, we will never know the
answers to these questions. With his death Otto Plath became a
"colossus" to his daughter, a broken statue she could only try
fruitlessly to mend. Her suicide has made her a colossus to us, simultaneously
unreachable and inescapable.
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