Anne Stevenson’s 1989 biography, Bitter Fame, excelled because it was written by a poet of Plath’s stature and generation, but it was probably compromised by Plath’s sister-in-law, Olwyn Hughes, who did not know her well and wanted to defend the reputation of her brother, Ted. Finally, she was every bit as much a mystery as you and I, untouchable by the facts of her life, no matter who mines and exhibits them. She suffered from depression, but depression did not define every day of her life. She was smart, ambitious, hugely talented, disciplined, complicated.
Plath was not a poet of suicide any more than Homer was a poet of sailing. None of these judgments has touched the reality of her person or the reasons her poetry stands out in comparison to the writing of others. She became famous not for herself, not even for the fierce, exacting beauty of her best poems, but as a figure easily misread by what she had called “The peanut-crunching crowd”-a martyr, an icon for feminists, a cautionary tale, a bitch-goddess. One could argue that Sylvia Plath was destroyed by fame even before she became famous, though her most enduring fame was achieved after she committed suicide on February 11, 1963. Writers thrash in the arms of this paradox, wanting to say something that will speak to future generations, wanting the opportunities that fame affords without being destroyed by the judgments that follow it. Consider also the paradox that literature requires solitude, not only for its composition, but for access to the deeper waters of inspiration, beyond ego and its siren calls. Consider the problem of fame, one of the most universal human desires and one of the most disastrous, how it underlies literary ambition, the “fair guerdon” praised by Milton. But social media only amplify human tendencies that have always been with us, wherever two or more are gathered in the name of anything. How little mercy we show each other, how little forgiveness.
How little justice really results from our cries for justice, our certitude, our raging egos, our “likes,” how much could in a better world remain open to nuance, ambiguity and doubt. We make the narrative worse with our ridiculous social media, the lack of circumspection as persons and reputations go crashing down in the flames of righteousness and vindictive gossip. One of our most powerful stories is that of the misread person, judged and condemned by everyone, ultimately unseen. So this is what an afterlife can come to?
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