It’s been a while since I’ve read The Bell Jar, but I remember it as a cautionary tale for feminists, rather than feminist writing. Sylvia Plath was a victim of her times and of her husband. She was a free soul trapped in a marriage with an insufferable egotist whose fame would always overshadow anything she could do. She probably shouldn’t have been a mother.

She was a brilliant writer who no doubt knew it but she would never have a chance to shine while being married to someone like Ted Hughes. He was still insulting her long after her death.

It was her longing that drew her to us. And it was what did her in.