Though Plath has become a modern legendary figure, this is the first fully informed account of her life as a poet. With new material of all sorts, Stevenson recounts the struggle between fantasy and reality that blessed the artist but placed a curse on the woman. Photos.
At first I really liked this biography but as I continued reading and getting to the second part that focuses on Plath’s marriage to Ted Hughes, I felt the biographer was unreliable in her representation of their marriage and biased against Plath, even going as far as to suggest that it was her jealousy that caused Hughe’s affairs (that are simply mentioned throughout the book). She attempts to paint a picture of Hughes as the perfect husband who was often embarrassed by his wife’s mood swings but was always good and supportive of her. Even though this may have been the case, she overemphasizes Plath’s mood swings and provides multiple accounts of people suggesting she was rude to them or antisocial and it’s clear how she is trying to justify or even cover Hughe’s unfaithfulness. When she finally reaches the point when Plath decided to file for divorce because of Hughe’s adultery, she writes that: “The inflexibility of her self-absorption, coupled with the dark moods that were inseparable from her strange genius, may finally have broken down her husband’s defenses at the very time Sylvia’s fierce daemon or inner self was emerging” (p.257) To me this is not how a good, reliable biographer would handle the portrayal of the two poets and their failed marriage. Of course when one takes into account that the book was edited by Hughe’s sister, Olwyn Hughes, it all makes sense. Overall this was an insightful account of background information for her work but all together problematic and unreliable when it comes to the portrayal of Plath and Hughes.
So unbelievably biased against Sylvia Plath that I often found 'Bitter Fame' difficult to read. I can imagine that Plath was a difficult person, but the level of influence from the Hughes estate taints the biography; there are far too many irrelevant passages describing Plath's bitchy journal entries and undermining her character for my liking.
Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call.
Although I’ve read critical studies of Plath, an abbreviated biography of her life before she met Ted Hughes, the meta The Silent Woman, a kind of biography of the Plath-Hughes mythology, even the ‘unauthorised’ life of Hughes, I’d never read a full biography of Plath herself.
Stevenson’s book has been dogged by concerns about the extent to which it was edited by, and complicit with, the non-objective views of Olwyn Hughes: Ted’s sister, guardian of his reputation and (legitimately?) careful of the impact on the couple’s children. Certainly it leaves much unsaid about his affair with Assia Wevill and other infidelities, simply acknowledging the former in the text. All the same, it’s a sympathetic portrait of Plath herself, engaging intelligently with her struggles, her private mythologies and, most of all, her poetry.
Stevenson quotes extensively from Plath’s letters (Letters Home) and journals (The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath) though I think at the time of writing (1989), possibly only abridged copies of the journals had been made available in the Plath archive. In any case, Stevenson does a fine job of offering up a portrait of a young woman (Plath was, of course, only 30 when she killed herself) who was deeply affected by her troubled family relations and who forged her extraordinary later poetry precisely from her wounded and furious psyche. The raging voice of, especially, the Ariel poems must have burst on the 1960s scene like nothing previously written by a woman, full of rage and ravenous with malice and a kind of annihilating energy.
There are quotations from the poetry, and a long appendix which includes three memoirs from people who knew Plath and Hughes, though they are certainly not unbiased. Overall, though, this sends us straight back to the poetry – surely the function of a biography.
It has been a while since I read this nasty little opus but I've been thinking about Plath recently and about how all the mythology misses that she was a *real person*, in such despair and loneliness after her separation due to her husband's adultery that in the freezing winter of 1963 she closed the door on her two little children, left them milk and rusks, insulated the doors so the gas wouldn't leak and switched on the oven in the kitchen. How lonely must you be to end your life when you have tiny children you love and who love you - and yet so young (only 30) you feel compelled to leave them behind. I just can't believe the sheer spitefulness of this book, and I'm certain it's a wrong turn Stevenson has regretted all her life. At least I hope so, if she has any humanity in her heart at all.
Oh and I think there's a MASSIVE #metoo coming for Plath's ex-husband, coming for the entire late 20th century male poet fraternity now I think of it. Even reading his published letters gives me the violent shivers.
Two stars and here is why. Although I found the material presented well researched, Stevenson chose to omit events that would put the lie to her Hughes the martyr husband, who fell victim to his crazy wife. For example: during their separation they travelled together to Ireland, where Hughes agreed to help find a cottage for Sylvia and the children. While there he left her, inexplicably, without any warning or explanation. Stevenson took objection to Sylvia telling anyone who was willing to hear that "Ted had deserted her" in Ireland. She accused her of exaggerating the facts, however Ted's abrupt departure is never explained. The fact is, that Plath was not exaggerating. Ted left impulsively to vacation with Assia, his mistress in Spain. Incidentally, Hughes went on record apologizing for his behaviour by attributing it to "temporary insanity". This information is widely available, and surely Stevenson came across it in her research as easily as I did. To omit it, and similar facts on multiple other occasions, is wilfully presenting at the very least an incomplete, but in my opinion a very skewed picture of Plath. Undoubtedly Sylvia Plath was difficult. She flew into sudden rages and was excessively jealous and possessive. She was moody and unpredictable insisting on controlling her and Ted's personal universe. There are many reasons why a marriage fails. But to present only on side of the story does not make a biography.
One of the many pictures of the Plath enigma; a woman truly "at sea in an alien world."
Plath will forever remain the woman who showed me how poems could be more than strings of words on a page and how ethereal the world could be. Years from now I'll be reading her and I imagine I'll never stop. Though I suppose her genius, however great, did come with a price after all. "Sylvia Plath...is both heroine and author; when the curtain goes down, it is her own dead body there on the stage, sacrificed to her own plot."
I read this a long time ago, but the more I remember about it, the more I remember how much I didn't like the way it was not at all empathic toward Sylvia Plath, and even seemed strangely judgmental and harsh.
"...The inflexibility of her self-absorption...may finally have broken down her husband's defenses..." ( 257)
"It occurred to me and I may have said to Olwyn that Sylvia should have had the support of a close but removed friend ...who would have told her [about Ted], 'Give him some air to breathe and everything will be all right.'" (321)
Sylvia Plath was just too volatile. If she had been more sanguine, calm, and level-headed her husband wouldn't have strayed. Or even if he had, if she waited it out, he'd probably grow tired of it all and come back. If she could have tried to fit in more with their friends. If she could have been less American, less intense, less depressive. Or so gleaned from this biography, she couldn't do any of these things well enough. She was talented, yes, but as a person she was just too much. Ted Hughes was the better person, the more reasonable poet. And yet, Ted was glaringly left out of most of the retelling of their lives together. This isn't surprising as the author is upfront about the abundant help from his sister, Olwyn, and company. I don't feel I have to hate Ted Hughes to love Sylvia Plath, but I can be upset on her part and truly troubled by what she dealt with. I have hindsight and almost sixty years worth of resources to comb over in my quest to better understand the world Plath lived in and died. While this is an important resource, it isn't definitive. And it is far from unbiased against Sylvia Plath.
Much has been written about Sylvia Plath, a complex intense poet and mother who committed suicide when she was only thirty. Critics note that earlier attempts to chronicle her life were marked by the culture of the time, when feminism was growing and beginning to flourish. In that context, early biographers raged against Sylvia’s husband Ted Hughes as the author of her tragic end. As time passed, more balanced accounts surfaced including this offering by poet Anne Stevenson. It must be noted however, that this biography has been heavily influenced by Ted Hugh’s family and friends. Thus Ted is always portrayed as a model husband -- supportive, kind and always ready to pick up the pieces when Sylvia’s sulking or angry behavior caused problems in social situations. But as we all know, there are four sides to any marriage: her side, his side, the side seen by friends and relatives and the reality of what actually happened.
Ted’s sister Olwyn Hughes is the literary executor of Sylvia’s estate and gave Stevenson, the only authorized biographer, access to all Plath’s letters, papers, existing journals and sketches. Many of these have been off limits to other biographers, so this book has helped to clarify some of the half-truths that have been written in the past. This study of Plath’s life is also supported by three essays by individuals who knew the couple and are appended at the end of the text. Stevenson has quoted heavily from them and so they appear to be somewhat redundant.
Stevenson has given us a very detailed, chronological and factual biography. She notes every important event in Plath’s life as well as her inner turmoil, using Plath’s journals, notes, stories written for magazines, poems and interviews with her friends.
She begins by describing Plath’s life as the eldest child of Aurelia and Otto Plath. Sylvia’s father, a professor at Boston University, died when Sylvia was only eight years old. She never recovered from this loss which left her with a sense of abandonment and its ghosts haunt many of her poems. Following his death, funds were in short supply, but Sylvia’s mother tried to provide both Sylvia and her brother Warren with a superior education. Sylvia helped by winning scholarships and earning money from poems and stories she submitted to newspapers and magazines. She also won a place on the College Board of Madmoiselle Magazine in 1953.
During her junior year at Smith College, Sylvia became very depressed and was treated with electroconvulsive shock therapy. This was a horrible experience which influenced her work (and probably her health) for the rest of her life. She subsequently tried to commit suicide with sleeping pills and spent six months in a private hospital receiving intensive treatment. However she never fully recovered.
Plath returned to Smith, graduated summa cum laude and won a Fulbright scholarship to study at Cambridge. There she met Ted Hughes and the couple were married shortly afterwards. For the first six years the marriage appeared to be a strong union of two very dedicated and talented writers. Sylvia was as ambitious for Ted’s career as she was for her own and it was she who typed up his poems and submitted them to a poetry contest. When he won the prize for his first poetry Collection “The Hawk in the Rain”, his career took off.
The couple had two children, Frieda and Nicholas. But the marriage was complicated by Sylvia’s intense jealousy, her demons and Hugh’s infidelity. It was after Hugh left the marriage that Plath produced most of the poems that have brought her fame posthumously. They are powerful poems full of rage, love, despair and vengeance and at times are difficult to read. The very cold winter conditions in 1963, the end of her marriage and her mental instability led her to commit suicide by gassing herself in her kitchen flat in February of that year.
Plath was an obsessively ambitious woman, always pushing herself to be an excellent student and a brilliant author. Urged by her mother’s expectations, she wanted to be a well-rounded, desirable All-American girl. She could not accept being flawed or fallible and needed constant reassurance as well as personal and professional recognition. Her demons constantly humiliated her by demanding this perfection and if she did not reach it, they made her feel “lousy”. Writing was the way Sylvia tried to work her way out of this conflict and gain acceptance in the world. As she said in her journal: “if you do not love me, love my writing and love me for my writing.”
Despite her mother’s expectations that she be a “good girl”, Plath wanted to experience life, explore her sexuality and enjoy the career for which she had been educated. She always presented a poised and capable appearance to the rest of the world, while underneath an angry caldron bubbled, producing an inner chaos she constantly had to suppress. These two sides to her personality continually conflicted with one another during her life. She had a bright optimistic personality she willed herself to show the outside world, while disguising a dark and troubled inner self she wrote about in her poems and journals. Her yearning to kill off the false self she projected to the world so her real self could emerge, was the fuel that nurtured her long time obsession with suicide. She identified herself as trapped inside a bell jar, a glass wall that imprisoned her madness. When the jar lifted she was free and happy, but any misfortune brought the wall back down and once it was down, escaping from under it felt impossible. She described this metaphor hauntingly through the character of Esther Greenwood in her only novel, the semi-autobiographical book “The Bell Jar”. It was always her hope that her poetry would help her escape, but it never did.
Not as much was known about bi-polar disorder and psychoses during those times. Plath’s friends and colleagues tolerated her manic and depressive states, her mood swings and her irrational behavior although it often puzzled and angered them. They felt she was difficult and they worried about her. One reads through Plath’s journals just how difficult it was for her to maintain an ordinary existence even for a day. And despite her letters home to her mother which always painted a joyous picture of dreams fulfilled and anticipated successes, one reads the suffering reflected in the disturbing quality of her poems. In many of these poems she also displayed a surprising lack of conscience about hurting others as her work attacked her father, mother, husband, neighbours and friends.
Stevenson’s critique of Plath’s poems is helpful. She places the poems in the context of Plath’s life story, helping to bring insight and understanding into Plath’s work. As a poet herself, Stevenson recognizes and understands how Plath’s mental fragility is expressed through her poetry. I also found it helpful to read “The Collected Poems” by Sylvia Plath’s at the same time I was reading Stevenson’s book, moving between the two to get a fuller picture of the meaning and symbols in Plath’s poetry.
This is an excellent, detailed, well researched volume which I would recommend to all those interested into Sylvia Plath’s life and work.
Unbalanced, biased, and uneven. From reading her narrative it seems that the author felt Ted Hughes could do no wrong: perfection on two trousered legs. She's also jealous and envious of Plath, begrudging her posthumous accolades. Stevenson believed that she was a better poet than Sylvia and the fame should have been hers (while living, of course). A vicious and nasty book I regret reading. I have Red Comet on my shelf but chose this book because it was shorter. Mistake. [1★]
This biography was recommended to me as one of the best on Plath's life and I can kind of see why it is so appreciated. Not only it was an account of her life from her letters and notebooks, but it also provided "the other side" of things from people who knew Sylvia. Most of her poems were also (sometimes fully) analyzed, providing context and meaning behind her words.
Sylvia Plath wasn't exactly the easiest person to deal with, I agree. I loved (and will forever love) the Sylvia I discovered while reading her early journals but I was sure we didn't get the whole story in those pages. That being said, this book totally ignored (I'm not sure if on purpose or not) the fact that Ted Hughes was likely abusive towards Sylvia - Ted was always viewed as "the good one" in these pages. The affair that destroyed their marriage didn't even get a full page.
I have NEVER not finished a book before. NEVER. I remember reading Lady Chatterley's Lover over the space of a year. 1-2 pages a day. Hated it. But I had to finish. The bad thing was, it stopped me from reading anything else as I didn't want to start anything new while I had that unfinished task over my head.
Flash forward 20+ years and I for the first time ever am going to mark a book as DNF (I even created a goodreads category :-)).
Why this book? Was it that bad? No. It is just that I found it dull and not at all insightful and more specifically because I just read an article that spoke to me about loving what you are reading and learning to say NO to a book. JUST SAY NO: "http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandsty..."
I read the Bell Jar last year and fell in love with the writing of Sylvia Plath. I knew the Bell Jar was semi-autobiographical, so was keen to actually see how close much of it was to what she experienced. Damn close. However, I found the writing of this autobiography really uninspiring and drab and after feeling such emotion reading the Bell Jar, this just became a bit of a downer. This book was NOT a bad book - it is just not the right book for me at this point in my life.
It's a good biography and shows the human side of Sylvia, warts and all, in an objective manner, while praising the poems themselves and using them frequently to illustrate Sylvia's state of mind at the time she wrote them. The book should be viewed as a supplement to another good bio in order to get more of the details of Sylvia's life. What I didn't like was the short "memoir" of Sylvia in the appendices by her former friend Dido Merwin, which is almost unrelentingly uncomplimentary and artificially "literary" (e.g., using a lot of foreign-language expressions). It reads like the unresolved resentments of one who was slighted by Sylvia's frequent lack of social niceties and jealous behavior, and seems like a pseudo-intellectual attempt by Merwin to impress the reader with her own writing talents, although she does acknowledge the uniqueness and idiosyncratic genius of Sylvia's poetry.
It was a very interesting, well-written and detailed biography. I did have the impression, though, that the author, sometimes, was trying to put all the blame on Sylvia, like she was the villain and everyone else poor victims of her mood swings. All in all, I appreciated the work. Would recommend.
I’ve ‘hate-read’ this so many times ... love that it’s now referred to as a ‘cause célèbre in abuse biography’. It truly is a fascinatingly detailed, nasty and spiteful book - but unputdownable, hence 3 stars - that I suspect Anne Stevenson regretted for the rest of her life. The appendix by Dido Merwin is a piece of work, literally! Found myself dipping into it again today as have just listened to the new - and very good - ‘Her Husband’ by Diane Middlebrook and realised with some shock that it is exactly 60 years since the day of Plath’s death. Will reread some of her extraordinary poems today.
I learnt a lot about Sylvia Plath but there is also quite a lot not to like about this biography. Given the involvement Stevenson had with Ted's sister when writing the book, readers will notice the vast amount of times Ted is portrayed as a flawless, kind man. Ted is never shown in a bad light (if he was I have missed it) and the little snide remarks from Olwyn Huges is evident throughout. Sylvia is shown as a violent, angry, 'crazy' woman. The quotes given by Sylvia in regards to Olwyn are frequently dismissed by Owlyn as wrong- anytime Sylvia would make a negative remark about the woman she would use this biography as a way to throw Sylvia's opinion back at her, shutting down her very valid feelings. This could have been a remarkable biography, unbiased and well written, which at times it was, and Olwyn should have written her own book and left Stevenson alone.
I was introduced to this biography through a course in Abnormal Psychology, where Sylvia Plath was briefly covered as a real-life case study for bipolar disorder.
While the author does a great job of piecing together a portrait of Plath's life, I was utterly turned off by the manner in which Ted Hughes is portrayed almost saintly in contrast with Plath's instability. This isn't to say that I'm just another Hughes-hating feminist; I merely don't feel the marital strife was depicted objectively.
Of course, I'm no Plath or Hughes scholar, nor could I even be considered a fan of their work. I do feel her life merits another look, though, and will be seeking out other biographies to try to obtain a broader, more well-rounded account.
Sylvias life tragically ended at the age of 30 after she gassed herself in her London Apartment. She was churning out some of her best work just prior to her suicide - the Bell Jar had only recently been released. Interestingly, Sylvia had a chance encounter with the famous author, Doris Lessing just before her death. Doris found Sylvia far too animated for her likening - a comment she regretted after hearing of the suicide.
The biographer steers away from unnecessary emotive writing and facts. The book is overall warm and insightful.
Biased against Sylvia, of course (what 'official' biography approved by Olwyn Hughes wouldn't be?), but nonetheless a treat to read -- I inhaled it, reading the last 200+ pages over the course of a day, after reading nearly nothing at all for a month -- simply because Sylvia is so fascinating, and because I am so fascinated by her.
More than a full biography, BF is a careful study of Plath's poetry and its genesis. I've read the book several times, which in a way is an expression of morbid curiosity. A lot of that interest can be attributed to Plath feelings with which I sympathize, as a woman who grew up in the fifties and sixties and dealt with the kind of quashing and control typically imposed on women. I also felt similar pressure to behave as one who served and supported. I also experienced some similar feelings losing a father. I like to write poetry and have spent considerable time at that, though not lately as it seems to require a block of time, and the right time, that I haven't had for a while. Obviously, Plath was compelled and obssessive (and talented -- as in dedicated and persevering).
There, the resemblance ends. Plath was a seriously disturbed person who did not get the help she needed to work through what she herself refers to as "baby reactions." I don't think Stevenson meant to pillary her with descriptions of these reactions, which are directed related to both her poetry and to the difficult she had relating to other people. Dido Merwin's account comes across as someone who permitted another someone to walk all over her and then can only see the negative in that person (this account was in itself very bitter). Lucas Myers was simply unsympathetic, a sort of refusal to relate to Plath in any positive way except as Hughes' wife, and only so long as they were together. Both these accounts were very likely written on behalf of Ted Hughes, who was their friend and whom they saw as persecuted by ardent Plath friends.
All-in-all, this book made me feel very sad for Plath and her family. And the fact that we have Ariel, and other brilliant poetry as a result of a life that really qualifies as tragic -- that doesn't lessen my feeling of sadness for her and them.
Very much of its time (published in 1989), in that it attempts to redress some balance in the 'Ted Hughes the cheating deserter husband who stifled his genius wife' climate that had prevailed from the 60s/70s, but it goes too far in the Saint Ted with difficult Sylvia direction. Of course neither crude opinion can define a complex creative marriage. What also dates it is the whole depiction of Plath and her mental illness. Its not really mentioned as such, the symptoms that stemmed from it are, but Stevenson doesn't really dive deep into this. The anecdotes from her contemporaries whilst interesting were skewed towards portraying a picture of her as unfriendly and unreasonable. I'm sure she was, but she was more than that and a genius to boot. The analysis of the actual poetry is really good. A pity Stevenson was not able to write more from this perspective.
I enjoyed reading this biography, it is the first book I have read about Sylvia Plath and so for me it held new and interesting information. However, even though I only knew the bare bones of Sylvia's life's narrative before reading this book, I picked up on quite a strong bias in the authors writings. I am left feeling like I need to read her biography all over again, but this time written by a more impartial and understanding author. Perhaps it is just "of its time" and a more modern piece of scholarship would correct the shortcomings.
Ich habe die Biographie in die Hand genommen und konnte sie nicht mehr aus der Hand legen. Ich bin aber froh sie jetzt ausgelesen zu haben und endgültig aus der Hand legen zu können denn im Grunde genommen war sie schlimmer als jeder Horrorfilm. Ich wünschte ich hätte nie in meinem Leben überhaupt von Sylvia Plath gehört. Aber so ist vielleicht auch ein weg mit ihr abzuschließen und niemals so zu werden wie sie (Obwohl sie definitiv eine talentierte Dichterin war - das muss man ihr lassen!)
Nicht destotrotz ist das Buch sehr gut aufgebaut und geschrieben.