In the intervening decades she has become a protean figure, an emblem of different things to different people, depending upon their viewpoint - a visionary, a victim, a martyr, a feminist icon, a schizophrenic, a virago, a prisoner of gender - or, perhaps, a genius, as both Plath and Hughes maintained during her lifetime.
The exception is Sylvia Plath, who, with her perfect blond pageboy, wide smile and cinched-waist dresses, looked less like a proper poet and more like Doris Day.īy now, many of us are familiar with the rough outlines of her saga: the shining promise the death of her adored father when she was 8 the titanic ambition and extraordinary persistence (in 1950, the summer before Plath started college and after more than 50 rejections, Seventeen magazine accepted her short story “And Summer Will Not Come Again”) the attempted suicide during her time at Smith the Fulbright to Cambridge, where she met the broodingly handsome Yorkshire-bred poet Ted Hughes (“my black marauder,” as she called him), whom she soon married the birth of their two children, Frieda and Nicholas the couple’s single-minded devotion to their art and conviction about their respective talent, followed by Hughes’s affair with Assia Wevill and Plath’s taking her life in February 1963 at the age of 30 during what was famously London’s coldest winter of the century. Today’s media-fixated, Kardashian-dominated world is filled with all sorts of legends, from the elevated to the base, but I can think of few poets who fit into this category.
What becomes a legend most? As suggested by the old black-and-white Blackglama fur ads, featuring Lena Horne, Diana Vreeland and Cher, among others, legends are people who have soared beyond fame or celebrity into a more rarefied, inaccessible stratosphere. RED COMET The Short Life and Blazing Art of Sylvia Plath By Heather Clark
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