Did you know that Ted Hughes left Sylvia Plath with two little kids when he walked out? I guess most people who care about Sylvia Plath would know that. But I don’t care about Sylvia Plath, so it was news to me. Jesus Christ, Hughes was a fucking douche. You’d have to be to make me sympathize with the spindizzy who wrote The Bell Jar.

In other news, their son just killed himself “forty-six years after the suicide of his mother.” Oh, the sad harmonies of time. He was a marine biologist at the fucking University of Alaska but had quit, or taken a leave of absence or something, “to make pottery in his home studio.” He was really depressed, apparently. I can’t say I blame him, considering his fucking mother killed herself in the next room when he was two or something.

Hughes’s next wife, the one he left Plath for, also gassed herself. Instead of just leaving a couple of little kids without parents in a cold London winter, she took that extra step and actually killed her little daughter while killing herself.

Here’s what Plath wrote about her little boy at some point before offing herself: “You are the one/ Solid the spaces lean on, envious./ You are the baby in the barn.” Well, Jesus. If my mom said that about me, I’d slap her face. But she’s got class and a sense of responsibility. I’m lucky to have her, taken all in all.

Fuck, how much does it take not to be some kind of poetic fucking asshole?

UPDATE:  And my mom tells me she thinks Sylvia Plath was actually a good poet. Score one for human complexity.

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