| Product Summary | | Format: Hardcover | | ISBN: 9781568497235 | | Publisher: Buccaneer Books Inc | | Publish Date: 4/10/2007 | | Buy.com Sku: 30465980 | | Item#: RJDF2Y | | Dimensions (in Inches) 9H x 6L x 0.5T |
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| | | Annotation: Collected by Ted Hughes, the poems in ARIEL are the ones Plath was working on just before her death. These poems are valued for their bold metaphors, heightened use of language, and violent, often disturbing imagery. With the publication of ARIEL, Plath became an icon of the feminist movement because of her distinctively female, autobiographical voice and her intensely described struggles against destructive patriarchal values.
| PraiseNew York Times Book Review "[O]ne of the benchmark volumes of poetry in this century." - Eavan Boland 01/24/1999Paris Review "One of the hidden supply lines behind ARIEL was the set of Neruda translations that [W. S. Merwin] did for the BBC at that time. I still have her copy. It wasn't just Neruda that helped her. It was the way she saw how Bill used Neruda. That wasn't her only supply line, but it was one." Spring 1995 Twentieth-Century Literature "More successfully than any other recent American poet, Sylvia Plath dramatized those moments of crisis during which the self must choose between life and death." - Jon Rosenblatt Apring 1979 |
| Author Bio| Sylvia Plath | | Sylvia Plath and her younger brother grew up outside Boston. Plath's father, a Polish immigrant, was a professor of biology at Boston University and an expert on bees. Her mother's parents came from Austria. Plath was an intelligent, sensitive child who published her first poem when she was 8. Her father died that same year, and the family moved to Wellesley to live with grandparents, while Mrs. Plath taught in a secretarial course. From an early age, Sylvia Plath, a popular, prize-winning A student, was known as a perfectionist. After many rejections, she published her first short story in "Seventeen" magazine in 1950, and also a poem in the "Christian Science Monitor". The summer after her junior year at Smith, Plath spent a month in New York City as a student guest editor at "Mademoiselle" magazine, following which she attempted suicide with an overdose of sleeping pills, experiences she immortalized in her autobiographical novel, "The Bell Jar", published in 1963 under the pseudonym Victoria Lucas because she was afraid the book would cause pain to people she had drawn on as characters. She graduated from Smith with honors, then studied at Cambridge on a Fulbright scholarship, where, in 1956, she married the poet Ted Hughes. In 1960, when she was 28, her first book of poetry, "The Colossus", was published in England. She and Hughes lived in a Devon village, but by 1962 they had separated, and Plath, impoverished and despairing, moved to London with her two children, writing in the early mornings while they slept. During the cold winter of 1963, Plath committed suicide by gassing herself in her kitchen. Her last poems were published posthumously. |
| | Read A Chapter | Morning SongLove set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.
Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue. In a drafty museum, your nakedness Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.
I'm no more your mother Than the cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow Effacement at the wind's hand.
All night your moth-breath Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen: A far sea moves in my ear.
One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral In my Victorian nightgown. Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square
Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try Your handful of notes; The clear vowels rise like balloons.
Continues...
Click to read more... Morning SongLove set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.
Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue. In a drafty museum, your nakedness Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.
I'm no more your mother Than the cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow Effacement at the wind's hand.
All night your moth-breath Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen: A far sea moves in my ear.
One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral In my Victorian nightgown. Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square
Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try Your handful of notes; The clear vowels rise like balloons.
Continues... Excerpted from Arielby Sylvia Plath Copyright © 1999 by Sylvia Plath. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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