The silent woman Book

I found Janet Malcolm's non-biography/biography on the Plath/Hughes estate battles so gripping that I finished it in two sittings. Admittedly, this was not the book I was expecting (thought what I was expecting I'm not entirely sure of), but it read very intimately, very quickly, and very bitingly. Though Malcolm admits on several occasions that she leans on the Hughes "side" of the drama--and she would, seeing as she's cleverly evading the trappings of conventional biographical strictures with this book--she turns a shrewd, and often unkind, eye on all players in the mythology.

Malcolm's general premise contends that biographers are vultures; identity-scavengers, if you boil off the academic and scholarly niceties. Biography as a genre attempts to whittle the beautiful and the damned down to their most basic and/or relatable parts--people wish either to see that "Celebs! They're just like us!" OR "Celebs! They're monstrous abortions of human decency!" Or so Malcolm attempts to relate in this book, and thus her alignment with the Hughes family, who have been notoriously difficult to wrangle in biographical enterprises concerning Plath. Do I think biographies are all bad, as Malcolm seems to? No. Do I agree that they necessarily play with the reader's hidden or admitted voyeurism? Sure. But biographies can also be potent insights into historical moments--this is, in fact, why (I think) I'm so drawn to the genre. I was once a minor history buff in high school, and realized I wasn't cut out for it, deciding to play to my strengths--and real passions--instead, in literature. Biography, for me, is a way to make contact with history through a palatable entry point--a person, a figure that concretizes the abstractions of history (which is itself in many ways mere narrative, just as biography is) and brings that abyss of moments and experiences to vibrant life.

So the foundations of the book make sense to me, even where I veer off Malcolm's path. And certainly, the drama reads as good as any fiction. There are all the main players: the evasive Bluebeard figure (Teddy boy); the wicked crone (Olwyn); the disoriented octogenarian (Professor Thomas); both the neurotic and the wily academic (Anne Stevenson & Jacqueline Rose, respectively), among others. It's all a high tragedy deployed ostensibly to dispel the high tragedy that's surrounded Plath & her circles since that chilly February morning of 1963.

At any rate, an invaluable tool for anyone interested in Plath, Hughes, or the post-mortem drama staged between them and the reading public, as well as critics. Also a fascinating meta-narrative on biography that should be interesting for basically any curious reader. Highly recommended.