[I included a link to this article in the title.]
This week, the son of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes died by his own hand in his Alaskan home. I write of this because I wanted to paste the last few lines of the obit. here:
"[Plath] loved her children, but not even loving them could save her, or, it now seems, him. Her son tried to survive her, escaping to Alaska, pursuing the wild fish through the icy rivers, but in the end he swam back up stream to the terrible birth and death place. Plath was heroic, in her struggles to create light and art from darkness, and so, I must and need to feel, was he."
Margaret Drabble
I don't know how I feel about this. He escaped to Alaska, throwing himself in fish and pottery, staying far away from his literary ties, but in the end, they caught up to him. And in the end, he is reduced to a character in some of Sylvia Plath's later poems. It's a beautiful description Drabble wrote. I just don't know what to feel. Besides bad.
I'm going to bed now, I promise. It's too late to deal with more Plath-Hughes suicide.
(why do people keep dying?)
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