Nicholas Hughes

Nicholas Hughes, son of celebrated poet Sylvia Plath, recently committed suicide.

A. Alvarez's The Savage God is one of my favourite books. I am especially grateful for its prologue, which details the life of Sylvia Plath and the way in which despair stalked her, leaving its black trace everywhere in her writings. At a time when I was somewhat disturbed it helped me achieve a certain clarity of mind I could not have afforded otherwise. The essays treat suicide as the real course of action of real people. Alvarez stares the monster straight in the face rather than cajoling it or calling it bad names, avoiding the mistakes of less knowledgeable authors.

Now, to be completely honest I have only read snippets of Sylvia Plath -- from English classes and the recommendations of disreputable acquaintances. I have heard more intelligent individuals berate Plath's works extensively. Though I am not exceptionally sophisticated when it comes to literature in general, I reject such critiques. Plath's poetry is heavy with a sense of existential pain to which every human being should be sensitive; to put aside such sensitivity, even for the sake of higher criticism, is to make humanity subordinate to academia. It is an aesthetic fallacy.

This is probably a stretch, but I think that further loss of sensitivity to the true impact of words gives us degenerates like Greg Gutfeld -- individuals who abuse their Freedom of Speech to spit on the tombs of the more valorous. This is only one example part of a sinister trend, a grotesque and spectacular reversal of evolution which, left unchecked, will indubitably lead us back to sub-animal levels of intelligence.

I have this lunatic fantasy. I think it very well could solve world hunger, stop global warming and cure AIDS. Imagine there was a shift in the current paradigm of intelligentsia. Imagine that instead of applying deconstructionism or other forms of hair-splitting for hours on end we invested all our intelligence towards maximizing our potential for happiness. I am not asking you to forget all criticism -- some criticism is constructive. Rather, picture a world in which mere intellectuality is not a lifestyle, but rather the other way around -- healthy development and living beautifully is counted as evidence of intelligence. Imagine that instead of finding ways to emancipate the Arts from decency -- so that suddenly words lose their meaning and songs about hoes and niggas crowd the airwaves -- imagine, instead, that we sought to reconcile heart and intellect, while ever keeping our best human aims in mind.

Then, I think, Odysseus could again take up Agamemnon's scepter and give Thersites the beating he deserves. The Sylvia Plaths might still die, leaving vast empty wastes in the wake of their brief and brilliant lives, but perhaps such deaths would appear less futile, and-- we can only hope -- become less frequent.