This notice appears in Garrison Keillor’s “The Writers’ Almanac”:
It’s the birthday of poet Sylvia Plath (books by this author), born in Boston (1932). She was an excellent student, and she went to Smith College with the help of a scholarship endowed by the writer Olive Higgins Prouty. One summer during college, she was chosen to be a guest editor for Mademoiselle magazine. She was only 20 years old, and she had already been published in Seventeen, Mademoiselle, The Christian Science Monitor, and other newspapers. Her summer started off well. She went to lots of parties and discovered that she loved vodka. But she was having trouble writing poetry and short stories, and she worried that she was a failure as a writer. Then she got notice that she had not been accepted for an advanced creative writing course at Harvard, taught by the writer Frank O’Connor. She was so depressed that she attempted suicide. Her benefactress, Olive Prouty, paid for her stay in a mental hospital and psychiatric care.
Plath returned to Smith and graduated with the highest honors in 1955. She won a Fulbright scholarship to study at Cambridge University, and there she met and married the poet Ted Hughes. In 1960, she gave birth to a daughter and published The Colossus, the only book of her poems to be published during her lifetime. It got minor reviews in various British publications. In 1961, she was excited to find an American publisher; she wrote: “After all the fiddlings and discouragements from the little publishers, it is an immense joy to have what I consider THE publisher accept my book for America with such enthusiasm. They ‘sincerely doubt a better first volume will be published this year.'” And on the date of its publication in 1962, Plath wrote to her mother: “My book officially comes out in America today. Do clip and send any reviews you see, however bad. Criticism encourages me as much as praise.” But The Colossus was even less noticed in America than in England; there were only a handful of reviews, many of them just a paragraph long.
Plath decided to write a novel based on her experience during the summer when she worked at Mademoiselle. She referred to the novel as “a pot-boiler” to family and friends, but she had high hopes for it. She won a fellowship to work on the novel, and the fellowship was connected to the publishers Harper and Row; but once she finished it, the editors there rejected it — they thought it was overwritten and immature. The Bell Jar was published in England in January of 1961 under a pseudonym, Victoria Lucas. It got good reviews, but not great. A month later, Plath committed suicide.
Many people learned about Plath only after her death, reading her poems in obituaries and news stories. In the next couple of years, her poems appeared regularly in magazines like The New Yorker and The Atlantic Monthly. In 1965, a collection of poems called Ariel was published posthumously and received major reviews in all the big papers and magazines. In Britain, Ariel sold 15,000 copies in its first 10 months, and Plath’s popularity continued to rise. The Bell Jar was finally published in the United States and stayed on the New York Times best-seller list for six months.
Sylvia Plath wrote: “Everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.”
Some years ago, I wrote to poet and Plath biographer Anne Stevenson (the author of “Bitter Fame”), on the subject of Sylvia Plath. She responded cordially from her home in Wales by a blue aerogramme (readers of Janet Malcolm’s “The Silent Woman” will recognize this type of mail). The gist of her response was this:
“Your letter pleased me particularly when you suggested that ‘the great poet’s cause is served best when her harsh and abrasive qualities are freely admitted, honestly, and without exaggeration.’ Yes, exactly. How could some saint or fantasy of ‘our culture’ have written ARIEL? That volume seems to me to stand as a monument to UN-niceness. It explodes as no one else ever did, the fiction of the possibility of a ‘nice’ perpetual civilization. Poetry will never be the same again. Plath was important because she opened Pandora’s box. The question is, where now do we go? What can we say about ‘hope’ — all that was left, you remember, after the insects of evil flew out to sting the world.”
That seems a fair summation of Plath’s extraordinary achievement.
Oh, and the aerogramme in question is dated June 2, 1994.
One of my favorite lines from Plath: “And the villagers never liked you.”
Yes, it conjures up everything from Frankenstein to Fronkensteen (Frau Blucher). Definitely not-nice humor, with pitchforks. I remember reading that Plath and a poet friend sat cross-legged on the floor of Plath’s apartment (when the Ariel poems were being written) ,and Plath read aloud her draft of “Daddy.” The two collapsed in giggles on the floor at those famously aggressive hyperboles. What might we conclude? It’s fun to be nasty? Or how our most cutting jokes reveal what’s in our psyches?.
“Ich, ich, ich, ich.”
Reading this, for some reason, made me think about Shirley Jackson, so I Googled &, sure enough, there are similarities. I tore through The Bell Jar, as well as Jackson’s books. (I am a fan of short stories and non-fiction–not so much poetry.) It turns out Plath “envied” Jackson, & had wanted to interview her. When reading Jackson’s biography, I kept thinking that she, too, would attempt suicide (her husband, like Plath’s, also had problems w/monogamy). Anyway, insofar as “nastiness”–they both came in for quite their share.
But Jackson’s Raising Demons & Life Among the Savages are hilarious books about her hilarious (& quite brilliant) children. Enjoyable, nostalgic (the ’50s, I think) & I recommend them, especially during these turbulent times.
The Plath Not Taken
The unworn path
Of Sylvia Plath
Was in the ‘hood
Of Yellow Wood
’twas in the mist
So Robert missed
That other way
On hiking day
And when he stopped
One eve, you know,
The path was topped
By feet of snow
And Robert had
So little time
Which might seem bad
But ain’t a crime
And lest anyone think I am being overly critical of Robert Frost, he is my favorite poet — after, Dr. Seuss, of course.
Oh, mine,too, SDP!!!
“The Road Not Taken” being my favorite. “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” my second!
Stopping by woods” was the first poem I ever learned by heart — in seventh grade.
That’s also when I started writing (mainly goofy) poetry.
So, you can blame it all on my seventh grade English teacher.
But had she known the damage she would cause, I suspect she probably never would even have brought up the subject.
One of my high school English teachers, Elizabeth Whicher, actually knew Robert Frost, who was a friend of her parents.
“The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” Good advice for anyone that is trying to do anything new or different.
It’s actually a two edged sword because there are lots ofvery ignorant people who have no self doubt whatsoever.
Much of the time it makes no difference, but it can be very dangerous when they are weighing in on matters that they know nothing aboutt (when economists pretending to be epidemiologists weigh in on school safety from covid for example)
There is even a name that describes the unwarranted confidence of ignoramuses: the Dunning-Kruger effect.
The irony is that the more knowledge and expertise one has, the more likely it is that one will have self doubt and hence lack certainty about a particular subject or approach.
Socrates Speaks
I know that I know nothing
And that’s what ” nonsense” is
So nonsense is the one thing
That I can surely diss
Especially in science, there is a fine line between creativity and crackpottery.
Creativity or crackpottery?
There always is a line
‘twixt crackpot and creative
That’s really very fine
And often quite ill-fated
Foundations
Scientist is grounded
In Nature’s stringent ways
But crackpot is just founded
In fact obscuring haze
The Nature of Science
Uncertainty and doubt:
What science is about
If “certainty” we’ve got
Then science it is not
Mind Not
Look for certainty
There you’lll find
Something certainly
Not to mind
SomeDAM Shave
Creativity
The source of all that’s new
Is doubting what is old
But knowing ’bout it too
Cuz ignorance ain’t bold
But ignorance is dumb
And surely not inventive
When sum of 1 plus 1
Is 4, it’s just demented
Plath is one of my all-time favorite modern poets. Like all the greats, form is blissfully married to content in her poetry, but she’s one of few moderns who electrify the old forms with realities of her contemporary era. Another Gershwin. It has been a long time since I studied her, yet a couple of them– The Baby in the Barn and The Colossus– still stick with me. I hadn’t realized her first hospitalization was about losing a place in a course with O’Connor. A dark psyche, immensely bright output, like a comet.
The Gauge of Self Worth?
You really make
A big mistake
When worth depends
On Harvard friends
The Harvard Club
To be rejected by the crowd
Is really reason to be proud
The Harvard Club is just collection
Of those who never faced rejection
Sylvia Plath wrote: “Everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.”
Students don’t need to write or create anything today…no doubt. The EdTech billionaires are harvesting their data and AI is translating every scrap of what’s written…pure 21st c. poetry.