If I had to count the number of inappropriate jokes I’ve heard about Sylvia Plath, I’d probably be much better at maths. Buzzwords: stuck, ...
If I had to count the number of inappropriate jokes I’ve heard about Sylvia Plath, I’d probably be much better at maths. Buzzwords: stuck, head, oven. Something about angst. Suicide hahaha! Publicly admitting to being a Plath reader attracts a certain kind of raised eyebrow, half-concerned, half-mocking. When I was sixteen, I discovered her work – I read Ariel underneath my desk while a teacher droned on about calculating compound interest on equity shares.
Like many girls, I was fascinated by the incisive yet deeply emotional way in which Plath investigated her own life and the things that happened to her. It was easier to call it infatuation because that assumes that my embarrassing, guilt-filled, overly intense fandom would fade over the years – but somehow, each time, Plath’s writing leaves me awed afresh. I’m learning to stop being embarrassed.
Not diminished by sadness
What does it mean to grow out of literature? As I grew out of Harry Potter – now part of a troubled legacy thanks to JK Rowling’s problematic position on transwomen – I got to the point where the immense role it played in my childhood is something I reminisce. It’s uncomplicated – a reread every few years, watching the movies sequentially with my dad.
When I read The Bell Jar for the first...
