October 27, 1932 - February 11, 1963
When I was ten, I discovered the book, The Bell Jar. It was quite by accident as I was playing with the books on my parents shelf. For some reason, the picture of the bell jar wrapped with an ivy vine caught my eye. Perhaps, it was the nouveau text of the title?
This was the first time I met Sylvia Plath.
By the time I discovered, Sylvia Plath, the poet, I had read and reread The Bell Jar numerous times. I can remember having the book ripped out of my hands by Sister Mary Somebody because, “A young child should not be reading such books!” I can remember the scandal it had caused and the investigation that followed. The library was sacked by a group of angry nuns and I was sent to the principal's office. Imagine Mother Superior’s surprise when my parents told her it was not only my book, but they had allowed me to read it more than once. “…but a MORTAL SIN! She stuck her head in an OVEN!” Mother Superior exclaimed as her hand pressed against the starched buttons and small gold cross. My dad stood up, said something I can not repeat, picked the book off the desk and walked out of the office. On the way home, he gave me the book back-That day I learned Sylvia Plath had killed herself.
Sylvia Plath did not stick her head in an oven. Yes, she did die of suffocation and by her own hand. Within years of her passing, the details of her tragic death had become bloated and distorted by urban mythology and pop culture consciousness.
The second time I met Plath, I met her as a poet. There was freedom in her blank verse and a banquet of luscious words, which invoked the senses. For a brief second, I could almost see through her eyes as the words passed into my mind. I can not describe the power of Plath’s words; her ability to encapsulate an entire experience in a line, her gift to speak her words and have the world turn silent to listen. This is the Sylvia I know, this is the Sylvia I love.
Somewhere along the way, the feminist shanghaied her. No longer the poet, Plath became an example of how a woman’s genius was not accepted by a Patriarchal society. These days, Plath has fallen into the hands of the medical community, who have now imprisoned her with the diagnosis of bi-polar disorder. You can see her picture between Emily Dickinson and Virginia Wolfe.
Why does the world continue to saddle poor Sylvia’s existence under the burden of oppression? Why must she be a victim first and an artist, second?
Such questions are rhetorical; the mythos of the artist is one, who suffers. The battle between the life of the author and the life of the text is continuous and one, which will most likely never end. As a people, we need to find the special ingredients to create genius and the set of events, which result in tragedy. If we can find such patterns, we can prevent the worst and encourage the best.
I choose this picture of Plath to post because she is full of life. Most photographs used of her are those when she is lost in thought, taken on the sly or looking down right miserable. These photos perpetuate the myth and ignore the beauty of this woman, inside and out.
Today, I choose to celebrate Plath’s life, her poetry and her legacy. I choose to celebrate her as a person with hoped and dreamed and loved and wished. I choose to celebrate her as a whole person and not a piece of someone's puzzle. I choose to celebrate Sylvia Plath as Sylvia Plath.
*originally published in Musings, Oct. 2006.
Well said. Have you noticed that men are not categorized in that way?
Posted by: Judy Wise | October 27, 2007 at 09:36 AM
This is a really beautiful post, Pilar.
My parents and I got in trouble when I was in 6th grade because I was reading "Black Like Me". My school thought it was inappropriate reading for someone my age.
Posted by: Laura Bray | October 27, 2007 at 10:15 AM
So well put, Pilar!
I agree with your assesment of the memory of Sylvia Plath.
I bet those nuns just about shit themselves when they saw you with that book!
Posted by: Maija Lepore | October 28, 2007 at 08:51 AM
Hi Pilar! Thank you so much for sharing this beautiful post, and the lovely photo of Sylvia - she looks so full of life and happy there. Your words are a wonderful tribute...Best wishes, Peggi
Posted by: Peggi | October 28, 2007 at 03:40 PM
what a beautiful, beautiful post! a lovely tribute to all artists who are made out to be only a small piece of what they were. xoxox
Posted by: leah | October 28, 2007 at 03:51 PM
exquisite post my friend! my question is, Why does anyone need to be explained and defined at all?! every person is many things, things that can be considered evil, ill or illuminating yet we are also a whole being with one true self, the soul. thanx for honoring Sylvia, one who touched so many with her heart gifts.
Posted by: Mija | October 29, 2007 at 01:08 PM
This is such an eloquent and beautifully written piece, Pilar. Thank you for sharing and teaching me about a woman that I didn't really know before. Hugs, Shari
Posted by: Shari Beaubien | October 29, 2007 at 03:51 PM
this was a beautiful tribute. thank you for reintroducing sylvia plath. i do like her poetry.
Posted by: Catnapping | October 31, 2007 at 10:11 AM
Hi Pilar,
It's good to be back at your blog...thank you so much for introducing me me Sylia! What a passionate story this is. It's good to be able to apprciate her for her and her art.
Thanks again!
xxooo,
Cheryl
Posted by: Cheryl Finley | November 01, 2007 at 01:27 PM
Pilar,
I feel so blessed to see the world as a poet, though it is not always easy. The poet never looks away. Thank you for your commitment and courage regarding your art and the art of others, including Plath. Oh and congratulations regarding the October GPP Street team
jodi
www.wildvines.blogspot.com
Posted by: Barone | November 02, 2007 at 01:45 PM
I enjoyed your essay on Sylvia Plath. It's been ages since I've read her, and you've made me want to renew acquaintance.
I'm sorry about the experience you had with the nun who confiscated your book. I was taught by nuns from grade school through college, and never new anything but kindness, intelligent teaching, and personal attention to the advancement of my interest in writing. Once, a nun apologized to me in front of the class, for a wrongful accusation also made before the class. It's sad that one bad experience can taint how one views a whole group of people.
Posted by: Kathleen Chabot | November 05, 2007 at 09:41 AM
When I was in 4th grade, I was told by the school librarian I would not be allowed to checkout Judy Blume's "Are You There God, It's Me Margaret." I might have threatened her with my Mafia ties, for eventually she gave in. Little did she know I was also reading V.C. Andrews and Mommy Dearest in class, behind my Scholastic textbook.
Jill <- Jolene's Kid!
Posted by: BellaKarma | November 06, 2007 at 11:55 PM
Great post, Pilar! And it was Sylvia Plath and the Bell Jar that got us talking and realize all the neat stuff we have in common ;-) I remember you recommending her poetry but I've had a hard time finding it. Does she just have one book or more? Can you give me the name of a compiliation I can keep an eye out for?
Posted by: debra cooper | November 08, 2007 at 10:15 AM
Wow! She still looks good for 75, and dead...
Posted by: Don | November 13, 2007 at 12:14 PM