Ariel: The Restored Edition

by Sylvia Plath

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue. The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God, . . . I simply cannot see where there is to get to. (“The Moon and the Yew Tree”)

It appeared to me that my father’s editing of Ariel was seen to “interfere” with the sanctity of my mother’s suicide, as if, like some deity, everything associated with her must be enshrined and preserved as miraculous.

“We already have a gravestone,” I replied. “We don’t need another.”

Each version has its own significance though the two histories are one.

Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call.