Told through three unique interwoven narratives, this novel reimagines a chapter in the life of Sylvia Plath, telling the story behind the creation of her classic, semi-autobiographical novel The bell jar.

This volume is a biography of American poet, novelist and short story writer, Sylvia Plath (1932-1963). The author's account of Plath's life and death reveals her roles as a girl, woman, wife, mother, and author. A writer from a very young age, Plath endures the death of her father at a young age. Throughout high school and college, Sylvia continues to write and excel in school. After a summer internship in New York City, Sylvia attempted suicide...

Since her suicide in 1963 at the age of 30, Sylvia Plath has become a strange icon. This book addresses why this is the case and what this tells us about the way culture picks out important writers. The author argues that without a concept of fantasy we can understand neither Plath's work nor what she has come to represent. She proposes that no writer demonstrates more forcefully than Plath the importance of inner psychic life for the wider sexual...

"The second volume in the definitive, complete collection of the letters of Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, Sylvia Plath, from the early years of her marriage to Ted Hughes to the final days leading to her suicide in 1963, many never before seen. One of the most talented and beloved poets, Sylvia Plath continues to fascinate and inspire the modern literary imagination. The tragedy of her untimely death at age thirty, almost fifty-five years ago, has...

In The Letters of Sylvia Plath Volume 1, 1940-1956, we discover the art of Plath's correspondence. Most of these materials have never before been published, and are presented here unabridged and without revision -- so that she can speak directly in her own words. Refreshingly candid and offering intimate details of her personal life, Plath's letters entertain a wide ranges of addressees, including family, friends, and professional contacts, with inimitable...

I took off my wedding ring for the last time -- a gold band with half a line of "Morning Song" by Sylvia Plath etched inside -- and for weeks afterwards, my thumb would involuntarily reach across my palm for the warm bright circle that had gone. I didn't fling the ring into the long grass, like women do in the movies, but a feeling began bubbling up nevertheless, from my stomach to my throat: it could fling my arms out. I was free ... A few years...