A couple of months after I began reading Sylvia Plath’s journals, I finally resolved to buy a book of her poetry. Years ago, in the early Seventies, I read some of her poems, but I was quickly repelled by the cult that had already engulfed her. Back then, the feminists paraded her as a martyr. Her suicide was a sufficient proof of martyrdom. Anyhow, I had no difficulty finding her Collected Poems,[1] edited and introduced by Ted Hughes. By the way, I also looked for anything of his. I found quite a lot, and ended up unable to make up my mind as to the right book to buy. Well, as soon as I opened Sylvia’s book, as soon as I recognized some of the poems she mentions in the journals, I was overcome. Gripping grief. There I was, standing by the poetry section in my well-worn mountain gear, knapsack and all, and fighting loud sobs. Clutching onto the book, I looked for the closest till. While I was waiting in line, I did not dare take another peek between the covers lest I burst into tears before leaving the bookshop. God, how much I feel for that silly woman!

Footnote

1. London, Faber and Faber, 1981.