It is sixty years since Ariel was first published. This heritage edition restores Berthold Wolpe's iconic jacket and reproduces the original distinctive typesetting in celebration of the enduring importance of a collection that contains many of Sylvia Plath's best-known poems. Written in an extraordinary burst of creativity just before her death in 1963, the poems are as expressive of joy as they are of desolation. The remarkable combination of artistry and intensity that was recognised on this volume's first publication established Plath as one of the most original and gifted poets of the twentieth century. 'If the poems are despairing, vengeful and destructive, they are at the same time tender, open to things, and also unusually clever, sardonic, hardminded. . . They are works of great artistic purity and, despite all the nihilism, great generosity. . . the book is a major literary event.' A. Alvarez, Observer
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Ariel
By Sylvia Plath
It is sixty years since Ariel was first published. This heritage edition restores Berthold Wolpe's iconic jacket and reproduces the original distinctive typesetting in celebration of the enduring importance of a collection that contains many of Sylvia Plath's best-known poems. Written in an extraordinary burst of creativity just before her death in 1963, the poems are as expressive of joy as they are of desolation. The remarkable combination of artistry and intensity that was recognised on this volume's first publication established Plath as one of the most original and gifted poets of the twentieth century. 'If the poems are despairing, vengeful and destructive, they are at the same time tender, open to things, and also unusually clever, sardonic, hardminded. . . They are works of great artistic purity and, despite all the nihilism, great generosity. . . the book is a major literary event.' A. Alvarez, Observer
Popular Reviews(1)
Reviewed by kenSome of my favourite lines. From “Tulips”: I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly / As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands / I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. I am a nun now, I have never been so pure. / I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted / To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes / Its bowl of red blooms out of sheet love of me. / The water I taste is warm and salt like the sea, / And comes from a country far away as health. from “Lady Lazarus”: Dying / Is an art, like everything else. / I do it exceptionally well. / I do it so it feels like hell.