Sylvia Plath was born in Boston, 27th October, 1932 to Otto, a Polish migrant and Aurelia Plath, of Austrian heritage. Both parents were academics, her father a biologist specialising in bees, was domineering, authoritarian and anti-social, dying of diabetes when she was eight. His early death traumatised her as she worshipped him. Even though her mother worked two jobs to support her and her brother Warren, Plath’s diaries reveal her hatred for her mother whom she blamed for her father’s death.
Though Plath was a good student, (winning scholarships to Smith’s College and Cambridge) she was a perfectionist and early already displayed signs of a fragile psyche; schizophrenia or some form of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, perhaps from the early death of her father. When she failed to gain admission to Harvard University, she attempted to commit suicide with sleeping tablets. Despite her anger at being “dragged back to life”, Sylvia graduated with honours and won a Fulbright Scholarship to Cambridge University, England. This is where she met Ted Hughes, an English Poet.
War of Words
Sylvia Plath met Ted Hughes at a party. She wore red shoes and her blonde hair was held back neatly by a red ribboned band. The giant of a young man, with seducer’s eyes and a humorous mouth, came over to her through the crowd and looked her hard in the eyes. He kissed her smash-bang on the mouth and when he bent to kiss her neck, she bit him on the cheek, drawing blood. With the blood weeping down his cheek, he swept the red band from her head and, pulling off her silver earrings, said: “Hah, I shall keep!”
She screamed inside, thinking:
“Oh, to give myself crashing, fighting to you.”
This was the meeting point of two the century’s greatest poets — a meeting described in the posthumously published journals and letters of Sylvia Plath. It’s also, of course, just one of the ways that meeting could be described.
Ted Hughes, for one, claims Plath’s somewhat ecstatic version of their first meeting was ridiculously exaggerated. It owes more to the drama of the Plathian interior”, than to reality.
The Hugheses were married only four months after that tumultuous meeting. To all accounts they were deeply in love and committed to their marriage and their writing. Each sustained the other in an effort to write: each pursued a poetry that struck deep into what Ted Hughes called “the real self”, the one buried way beyond the rational, social self.
But despite their obvious love and passion for each other, the marriage was to founder seven years and two children later, depending on which biography you read — that is, whether you are for Hughes or against — the reasons take two forms.
The first is that Sylvia, who was psychologically fragile, was extremely demanding and difficult to live with as a partner. ‘Sweet, loving Ted” bore most of the dreadfulness, with tenderness and forbearance but, with one terrible bout of petulance after another, climaxing in an episode in which Sylvia burnt all his work-in-progress and his precious volume of Shakespeare in a jealous tantrum, Ted had had enough. He began to look beyond his marriage for comfort.
The second is that Sylvia was forever frustrated in her need to write by the demands of her marriage and motherhood. Like all women of her time, she was wife and mother first, writer second. This was a war that went on within her, just as much as it was an external one.
In entries that cast her more as a 1950s homemaker than the feminist icon she became, she wrote: “Make him happy: cook, play, read ... never accuse or nag — let him run, reap, rip and glory in the temporary sun of his ruthless force.”
It was she who typed out Ted manuscripts and submitted them for publication and it was she who made it possible for him to write all day while she, as the woman in the partnership, had to snatch time when she could for her own talent.
The frustration led to deeper insecurity; psychologically fragile, Sylvia floundered; Ted betrayed her just when she needed him most; the marriage collapsed. She committed suicide in 1963.
The myth of Sylvia Plath bloomed quickly and sickly after her death. She was taken up immediately by what Olwyn Hughes (Ted’s sister) called “the libbers” as a feminist martyr, the housewife genius sacrificed on the altar of marriage, betrayed by a husband’s egocentrism and adultery.
She was the suicidal depressive, who flirted dangerously with the game of death, who had “tried it” three times, and had at last succeeded, leaving behind her a brilliant but sick poetics of death and annihilation.
Others saw her as a feminist hero, who had the courage to be unpleasant when women were supposed to be “nice”. She said it like it was, she who wanted “to live with no attachments, like a foetus in a bottle”, whose family’s “smiles catch on to my skin, little smiling hooks”. Here was a female voice speaking a female truth, shattering the “masculine” myth of devoted motherhood
And to others she was simply a great poet, who had committed the ultimate, romantic act of the great Poet. In the early hours of the morning of February 11, 1963, Sylvia Plath walked into her kitchen, knelt in front of her gas stove, laid her head on a square of folded cloth on the oven door, and gassed herself.
Her two children, Frieda, 2, and Nicolus,13 months in their cots upstairs, each with a glass of milk and saucer of bread placed neatly beside them. They were found alive and unharmed some four hours later. There is some evidence she hoped to have been discovered before it was too late.
Just one year earlier, she had discovered that Ted was having an affair with another woman. The couple separated, with Plath moving from their Devon home to London with the two children, and Hushes travelling with his lover, Assisa Wevill, in Spain.
Plath, installed in a maisonette in London, had to endure one of the coldest winters ever experienced in Britain. With the children ill with flu and herself slowly succumbing to a debilitating depression and often unable to sleep, she would rise at 5 am to write.
In these circumstances, she feverishly turned out some of the most frightening poetry the English language has produced. These poems, published by Hughes after her death under the collective title of Ariel were to lift her into the English literary pantheon — and into martyrdom.
At this stage, Plath is in her prime, too. In this prime, she is forever young, intemperate, demanding, her legend as strong as ever. It sits there, with its power to haunt and hurt, as dangerous as ever.
You knocked the world off like a flower vase. It was the third time. And it smashed (Hughes to Plath, after her death).
The diaries also show that their complicated seven-year relationship was frequently happy. She wrote often about her joy in finding “the big, blasting, dangerous love”.
In entries censored by Plath’s mother, Sylvia wrote brutally about her hatred for her mother, to whom she felt inescapably attached but whom she blamed for her father’s death. From The Guardian – London England
OR @ http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2013/feb/02/sylvia-plath-young-new-york-andrew-wilson
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