chapter 8

Sylvia Plath and You

Tracy Brain

The American writer and actor Lena Dunham asked her millions of
Twitter followers what The Bell Jar meant to them. ‘My favorite
response’, Dunham tells us, ‘was a simple “it made me feel less
alone.” Because that’s how it made me feel, too.’1 One of the funda-
mental ways that Plath makes readers ‘feel less alone’ is having her
fictional characters and poetic persona speak to them directly.
The second person direct address that she deploys repeatedly in her
writing is a key mechanism for achieving this.
Plath famously said, ‘I think that as far as language goes I’m an
American, I’m afraid, my accent is American. My way of talk is an
American way of talk. I’m an old-fashioned American.’2 Integral to that
‘way of talk’ is Plath’s fluent use of the second person narrative viewpoint,
and the intimacy and immediacy it can convey. This is in keeping with
Joshua Parker’s observation that ‘the “you”-designated protagonist in a text
often seems to develop out of an author’s desire to give an effect of spoken
word’.3
What is crucial about second person narrative is that it establishes
a relationship between the speaking ‘I’ and the ‘you’ who is being
addressed. At the same time, it cements a bond between these ‘I’ and
‘you’ persona and the reader, who is made to occupy both of these positions
at once. That is to say, the reader is simultaneously located as the person
speaking and the person spoken to. Hence, there is a fluidity and mobility
inherent in the second person. To put this negatively, ‘second person
narration is semantically unstable’.4 To put it positively, ‘Narrative “you”
generates a complex series of perspectives whose multiple angles deserve to
be explored.’5 We will see that there can be an intensity, too, in second
person narration. In Plath’s case, this is often amplified through additional
rhetorical and/or poetic devices, such as repetition, rhyme and even sudden
shifts in point of view. The latter force the reader to experience different
positions in relation to the story, subject matter and characters.
84

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 Sylvia Plath and You 85
Plath came into contact with the many common forms – literary and
otherwise – in which we find the second person address. These include
instructions such as user guides6 and recipes; questionnaires and inter-
views; advertising;7 letters; poems; and prose fiction. All of these second
person functions are utilised by Plath at various points in her work. My
purpose in this chapter is to provide key examples of these uses and
establish the context for the kinds of sources she drew upon.

Letters
We might begin by asking why the second person was second nature to
Sylvia Plath. The answer partly lies in her lifelong practice of prolific letter
writing. The epistolary form is fundamentally a second person form.
Aurelia Plath tells us, ‘It may seem extraordinary that someone who died
when she was only thirty years old left behind 696 letters written to her
family between the beginning of her college years in 1950 and her death
early in February 1963’ (LH 3). Yet the letters to Plath’s family were only
a fraction of her epistolary practice. Mrs Plath does not mention the letters
and postcards Plath wrote throughout her childhood,8 nor those she
addressed to numerous other correspondents during her life.
Those who are lucky enough to study the original letters in the archives
will be struck by their sheer quantity, by the blue airmail paper Plath
favoured while living in Europe and by Plath’s tendency to use every
millimetre of paper. She sometimes surrounds the recipient’s address on
the envelope with her continued message. In the early months of 1960,
Plath even types letters to her mother, brother and Sappho the cat on the
reverse side of a kitchen wallpaper sample that she wants to share with
them.9 Liz Stanley reminds us that a letter’s ‘power for the recipient’ is that
‘it bears many traces of its writer, such as their handwriting, touch on the
paper, and licking of stamps’.10 Plath’s presence is everywhere in her letters,
as anyone who has ever handled the rose-covered bedroom wallpaper
sample she touched with her own fingers will know.
But you do not need to handle Plath’s actual letters to experience her
presence. You’ve only to read the letters to identify with the ‘you’ she
addresses; indeed, to step into the shoes of this you, as it were, and feel as if
you are part of a continued and intimate conversation with Sylvia Plath. As
Plath herself puts it, discussing her correspondence with Gordon Lamayer,
‘the letters were really close to talking’ (LV1 660). And as a reviewer of The
Letters of Sylvia Plath recently said of Plath and her audience, ‘she has never
stopped speaking to us’.11

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 86 tracy brain
In her letters, says Nigel Nicolson, ‘Virginia Woolf varied her
approach from one person to another’.12 Joanne Trautmann Banks
believes we can play a ‘parlour game’ with Woolf’s letters: ‘Give the
players a letter to one of Virginia’s major correspondents. Cover up
the name of the addressee and see if the image of the implied reader is
so particular that the correspondent can be correctly guessed.’13 In
a good letter, Trautmann Banks’s reasoning goes, the person to
whom it is addressed should be implicit in every word. That ‘you’
should be fully formed and individuated, revealed by the circum-
stances of the letter and the nature of the way the writer talks to
them. Elaine Showalter writes of Plath, ‘Her letters to friends, rela-
tives, teachers, editors and boyfriends are performances; she is always
choosing which face to present, which voice to adopt.’14 Erica Wagner
makes a similar point. ‘One of the fascinations of reading these letters’,
she writes, ‘is seeing Plath present varied accounts of the same events
to different correspondents: mother, brother, whichever young man
(or young men) was the object of her attention at the time.’15
Trautmann Banks’s parlour game could be played with Plath’s letters,
too. ‘When and if you have a chance, could you send over my Joy of
Cooking? It’s the one book I really miss!’16 Can you guess to whom Plath is
writing here, given her ease at making the request, and also the fact that the
addressee is in possession of her book?
Plath is, of course, writing to her mother, Aurelia Plath.

Recipes
Of the hundreds of letters I could have selected for the parlour game,
I chose one with a reference to Joy of Cooking because it was a book that
Plath actively studied. Moreover, it is a book that is grounded in the second
person point of view. Plath writes in her Journals, ‘Yesterday I read through
the vegetable section of my blessed Rombauer . . . to cull all the sauteed
[sic] dishes’ (J 250–251). If we look at one of the sautéed dishes Plath was
likely to have read, we encounter the typical rhetoric and instruction of the
recipe book: ‘Quickly deglaze the delicious brown residue in the sauté pan
—unless you have been cooking with a strongly flavored fish—with stock
or wine. Reduce this sauce and pour it over the sautéed food. If you heat
sautéed food in sauce you steam it too much.’17 This is the second person
direct address with which Plath was so familiar, where ‘you’ is either
explicitly named (in sentences one and three) or implicitly present (the
command given in sentence two).

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 Sylvia Plath and You 87
It is noteworthy how authoritarian, and even scolding, the recipe is. It
seems less aspirational, less cheerleading and encouraging, than more
recent cookery books.18 Rombauer counts on the reader’s willingness to
obey the writer and trust in her expertise, and assumes at least a modicum
of culinary ability in the addressee, who is expected to know how to
‘deglaze’ and ‘Reduce’. While I rather enjoy loving what Plath loves,
I find Joy of Cooking bossy and irritating, largely because I feel whenever
I read it as if I am being rebuked for my domestic ineptitude. However
much Plath adored Joy of Cooking, it is precisely this sense of being told off
that she comes to exploit in The Bell Jar and in poems such as ‘The
Applicant’.
In her 1962 calendar, Plath interweaves her daily professional activities
with the foods she was cooking and baking. On 19 August, for example,
there is a seamlessness between her reference to the radio broadcast of
‘Three Women’ and her plan to cook roast lamb, cauliflower and apple
cake.19 It is natural that domestic and literary activities, the daily stuff of
Plath’s life, and their respective narrative strategies, should penetrate each
other. The authoritative, instructional tone of a recipe operates in Plath’s
18 November 1960 poem, ‘A Life’. The poem begins with an
implicitly second person command and the air of confident expertise and
experiential knowledge that are the currency of recipe writing: ‘Touch it: it
won’t shrink like an eyeball’. The second stanza begins with the
direct second person address, and another directive, followed by a cool
explanation of what will result if you take the prescribed action: ‘Flick the
glass with your fingernail: / It will ping like a Chinese chime in the slightest
air stir’ (CP 149, 150). You can imagine a comparable construction in
a recipe. Beat the egg with a whisk: It will thicken like cream in a freezer.
Similarly, in her 1962 short prose piece, ‘A Comparison’, she likens the
‘smallish, unofficial garden-variety short poem’ to a ‘round glass Victorian
paper weight’ or ‘clear globe’, and goes on: ‘You turn it upside down, then
back. It snows. Everything is changed in a minute’ (JP 56).

Advertising
Plath’s internship at Mademoiselle in June 1953 has been well documented
by biographers and critics. Elizabeth Winder provides a thorough descrip-
tion of the numerous products advertised in the August 1953 issue that
Plath helped to edit.20 These mostly fall into the categories of beauty
products and fashion. I want to draw attention to the advertisement that
appears on the same page as Plath’s 1953 poem, ‘Mad Girl’s Love Song’.

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 88 tracy brain
The page reveals the insistent coexistence of advertising with literary
writing, and the second person ‘you’ weaves its way through both.
The advertisement is for a coat, and the reader is told that it is a ‘Perfect
example of the Ardmoor talent for making you look terrific’.21 Beside
the second person advertisement, the second person refrain in Plath’s
villanelle is ‘(I think I made you up inside my head)’.22 Of course, Plath
could not have known that her poem would eventually appear beside the
advertisement. But it is easy to see the two adjacent pieces and come away
with the impression that the grammar of the entire page insisted on
a consistent use of the second person. What we can safely say is that
the second person was in the air, and it always has been. Angelina
Mirabella reminds us that the ‘Second person has various iterations, all
of which hinge on two questions: who is “you” and who is addressing
“you”?’23 In ‘Mad Girl’s Love Song’, the speaking I (or ‘person addressing
“you”’) is a young woman, and you is her fantasy lover, who she dreams
‘bewitched me into bed’.24 In the advertisement, the ‘you’ is a young
woman who would have much in common with the poem’s speaker, her
head full of a young man she wants to impress.
The world of ‘you’ penetrates everywhere in Plath’s work, from her less
well-known poems to her most famous. ‘You’re’, written in January or
February 1960, puts the second person in its very title, which must be
spoken as part of the poem for it to make sense. By this I mean that the
poem should not begin, ‘Clownlike, happiest on your hands’, but rather,
‘You’re Clownlike, happiest on your hands’ (CP 141). If we return to
Mirabella’s question, the ‘You’ in ‘You’re’ is an unborn child, and the
speaking I is his or her pregnant mother.
And the ‘you’ gains in sophistication, knowingness and irony, as Plath
and her work mature. An instance of the latter occurs in ‘Lady Lazarus’,
where the second person is invoked to mimic advertising strategies that will
grab the attention of the ‘peanut-crunching crowd’. The product the
speaker is trying to sell, here, is her very self. ‘Gentlemen, ladies / These
are my hands / My knees’ (CP 245), she tells them, seeming to perform
a magic trick. Plath recognises, and plays with, the fact that ‘“you” (as well
as “I” itself) can be a dangerous pronoun which advertising and journalism
may corrupt’.25

That October . . .
On 16 October 1962, Plath had this to say: ‘I am a writer. I hate teaching.
I am a genius of a writer, I have it in me. I am up at 5 writing the best poems

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 Sylvia Plath and You 89
of my life, they will make my name’.26 If you accept the argument that
a good letter will be so personal you can deduce a great deal about the
identity of ‘you’ from the way it is written, have a guess at the person Plath
addresses here.
To do this, you might pause to admire Plath’s unashamed and confident
declaration of her talent. Which raises another question. What kind of
person would she make such a declaration to? You might also consider
a number of likely characteristics for this person: somebody Plath knows
intimately and trusts; somebody for whom she needn’t put on a pretence of
false modesty; somebody she knows will not regard her as conceited or
arrogant; somebody who will want to agree with and celebrate such
a stance. In this instance – and you probably did guess before you came
to my prompts – the ‘you’ Plath is addressing is, again, her mother.
Tim Kendall reminds us that ‘Many of Plath’s poems written between
“Daddy” and “Lady Lazarus” address a specific individual.’27 Moreover,
a dozen of the twenty-five October poems are written in the second
person,28 most of them in a sustained address to you, whilst a few occa-
sionally deploy it. There isn’t space to look closely at them all here, and
I have examined Plath’s use of the ‘simultaneously first- and second-person
narrative point of view’ elsewhere,29 but it is worth pausing to consider
two. ‘Daddy’ may well be regarded as one of Plath’s most famous – and
notorious – poems. Of the many and various points made about it, what
isn’t often discussed is the fact that Plath puts the second person in the first
word, and it is a word that insistently determines the obsessive, powerful
‘oo’ rhyme scheme that winds its way through the entire poem.
‘You do not do, you do not do’ (CP 222) the daughter-speaker tells her
father. Jay Arnold Levine defines the verse epistle as ‘that kind of poem,
presented as a letter, which discusses serious matters of individual, social, or
political conduct in an intimate or middle style’.30 Plath’s second person
poems are not traditional epistles – the title is not ‘To Daddy’ – and the
poems are not presented as explicit letters. In other words, Plath’s second
person poems are not generically epistolary, but they have epistolary
qualities, and owe much to her apprenticeship as a letter writer. They
certainly work through an ‘intimate . . . style’. But unlike Levine’s concep-
tion of the verse epistle, Plath’s interventions in the form often speak of
‘individual, social’ and ‘political conduct’ all at once, rather than choosing
any single one.
‘The Applicant’ is another noteworthy second person poem from
October 1962. It engages in a ‘performative satire’31 in order to parody
the interview form, or even a consumer questionnaire. The poem begins,

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 90 tracy brain
‘First, are you our sort of a person?’ (CP 221). Here, the speaking ‘I/we’ is
a kind of agent or marriage broker. The ‘you’ they are addressing is the
single client who is seeking a partner (or, more likely, who is forced to seek
one). It is worth observing that any critical impulse to identify Plath herself
as the speaking ‘I’ is thwarted by the poem’s deployment of the second
person.

Fiction and the Flexible ‘You’

Plath’s apprenticeship with the second person was also served through her
reading of fiction. Jane Eyre’s declaration, ‘Reader, I married him’,32 is
probably one of the most famous second person addresses to a reader in the
English novel. It is a novel that Plath certainly knew. Her Eighth Grade
‘Certificate for Reading’ Jane Eyre was awarded on 7 June 194633 and she
refers on multiple occasions in her diaries to reading it as well as to loving
the film so much she watched it twice.34 It is worth mentioning, also, that
her copy of Charlotte Brontë’s Villette is heavily underlined and
annotated.35
Another key fictional context for Plath’s development of the second
person was J. D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. She refers in a 1956 letter
to ‘my copy’ (LV1 1187) of the novel. The following year, she writes: ‘I
could write a terrific novel. The tone is the problem. I’d like it to be serious,
tragic, yet gay & rich & creative. I need a master, several masters. . .. I have
that fresh, brazen, colloquial voice. Or J. D. Salinger. But that needs an “I”
speaker, which is so limiting’ (J 276–77). Plath finds a way to use Salinger,
learning from Holden Caulfield’s talky, confiding, colloquial voice, but
without being limited. One of her strategies for achieving this in The Bell
Jar is an intermittent, flexible second person that she had experimented
with in her 1958 story, ‘Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams’. That is to
say, Plath allows Esther to slip into the second person at key moments for
a variety of effects and ends, but does not sustain it through the novel.
The Catcher in the Rye famously begins: ‘If you really want to hear about
it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and
what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and
all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but
I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.’36 The Bell Jar’s
opening deploys the second person at the end of the novel’s first paragraph.
Esther tells us, ‘It had nothing to do with me, but I couldn’t help wonder-
ing what it would be like, being burned alive all along your nerves.
I thought it must be the worst thing in the world’ (BJ 1).37 The Catcher

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 Sylvia Plath and You 91
in the Rye’s initial ‘you’ is a version of ‘one’ that positions the reader as
a kind of interrogating enemy who will not prevail against the narrator, and
is kept at a distance from him.
The Bell Jar’s first ‘you’ works differently. It establishes the reader’s close
relationship with the speaking ‘I’, and their shared positioning. Both are
implicated in the act of imagining. Both are also the subject of the act that
is being imagined. By not saying ‘my’ (as in ‘burned alive all along my
nerves’), Plath also allows Esther – and the reader with whom she merges –
to establish some degree of rhetorical detachment from the horror of what
happened to the Rosenbergs, all the while highlighting any supposed safety
in the position as illusory. What in many contexts would be exaggeration –
‘the worst thing in the world’ – is actually a fair assessment.
There are instances in The Bell Jar when Plath uses ‘you’ as a stand-in for
‘one’, though always achieving the direct talkiness that is so important to
her. We see this, for instance, when ‘Buddy stopped for a breath, the way
you do in the middle of climbing something very steep’ (BJ 88). More
typically, though, simple cases of you being substituted for one, when
examined, reveal that they are anything but simple.
Esther tells us in The Bell Jar, ‘The trouble about jumping was that if you
didn’t pick the right number of storeys, you might still be alive when you
hit bottom. I thought seven storeys must be a safe distance’ (BJ 131). The
key thing here is that the change in narrative address at this instant high-
lights the intense and personal nature of Esther’s disclosure. It is when she
imagines the impact of jumping but surviving, severely injured, that Esther
deflects the impact from herself with the change of pronoun, abandoning
‘I’ for ‘you’, which Plath uses three times in that first sentence, before
returning to ‘I’ in the next one.
Joshua Parker tells us, ‘Many [authors] admit that second person is
a disguised first person, a way of putting distance between themselves and
an embarrassing or traumatic past experience’.38 But I would qualify
Parker’s account. My own experience leads me to see this strategy as
a way of demonstrating a character’s psychological truth and emotional
detachment from the terrible events he or she recounts, rather than the
author’s need to construct alterity between their writing and lived experi-
ences. As Jarmila Mildorf reminds us, ‘one cannot “know” the real-life
author and his or her intentions’.39
The Bell Jar is not Plath’s only work of fiction in which she deploys the
intermittent second person. Whilst there are numerous instances of the
sustained second person in the poems, we also find them in Plath’s short
fiction, as in her children’s story, The Bed Book (where you is the reader)

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 92 tracy brain
and her short story ‘A Day in June’. There is not scope in this chapter to
look further than this taster of key instances of her use of the second
person, and the generic contexts out of which this use was formed. Early in
The Bell Jar, Esther says of Doreen, ‘Everything she said was like a secret
voice speaking straight out of my own bones’ (BJ 7). The same could be
said of Plath’s numerous speakers, who talk to and from us at once, as if out
of our bones, through one of the twentieth century’s most accomplished
and powerful uses of the second person narrative viewpoint.

Notes
1. Dunham, ‘Sylvia Plath: Reflections on her Legacy’.
2. Orr, The Poet Speaks, 168.
3. Parker, ‘In Their Own Words’, 169.
4. Marcus, ‘A Contextual View of Narrative Fiction’, 48.
5. Morrissette, ‘Narrative “You” in Contemporary Literature’, 2.
6. Plath refers to the ‘travel books’ (LH 414) or (‘travelbooks’ [LV2]) she has been
reading (17 March 1961) and reviews Miroslav Sasek’s children’s picture book
This is Venice (Plath, ‘General Jodpur’s Conversion’, 698) on
10 November 1961. Here is a taste of the latter: ‘Near one end of the bridge,
you will find “the Erberia” market and the little church of San Giacomo’
(Sasek, This is Venice, 41).
7. It seems odd that an essay with the title ‘Who Talks Advertising? Literary
Theory and Narrative “Point of View”’ does not have a single reference to
the second person. See Stern, 9–22.
8. Now available in LV1 2–157, which reprints all extant letters from the 1940s.
The Lilly Library holds a box of Plath’s family correspondence that dates back
to when Plath was six years old. LILLY. PLATH MSS. II, Box 1,
Correspondence, 1938–Apr. 1951.
9. See Brain, The Other Sylvia Plath, 60. This letter can be found in LILLY.
PLATH MSS. II, Correspondence, 1960, Jan.–Apr., Box 6.
10. Stanley, ‘The Death of the Letter?’, 244.
11. Sehgal, ‘Sylvia Plath’s Letters’.
12. Nicolson, ‘Introduction’ to The Letters of Virginia Woolf, xxiii.
13. Trautmann Banks, ‘Introduction’ to Congenial Spirits, x.
14. Showalter, ‘Sunny Sylvia’.
15. Wagner, ‘The Many Selves of Sylvia Plath’.
16. LV1 1178. The reference is here given in an endnote to reduce the risk of
spoiling the parlour game.
17. Rombauer, Joy of Cooking, 127.
18. See for instance Mitchell, ‘The Rhetoric of Celebrity Cookbooks’.
19. Sylvia Plath, Personal Papers, Calendar 1962. SMITH.
20. Winder, Pain, Parties, Work, 210–13.

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 Sylvia Plath and You 93
21. Mademoiselle, August 1953, 358.
22. Mademoiselle, August 1953, 358.
23. Mirabella, ‘The Other Point of View’, 64.
24. Mademoiselle, August 1953, 358.
25. Morrissette, ‘Narrative “You” in Contemporary Literature’, 3.
26. LV2 861. The reference is here given in a footnote, again to reduce the risk of
spoiling the parlour game.
27. Kendall, Sylvia Plath, 161.
28. ‘The Swarm’, ‘A Secret’, ‘The Applicant’, ‘Daddy’, ‘Medusa’, ‘Lesbos’,
‘Stopped Dead’, ‘Fever 103º’, ‘By Candlelight’, ‘The Tour’, ‘Nick and the
Candlestick’ and ‘Lady Lazarus’.
29. Brain, ‘Story, Body and Voice’, 70.
30. Levine, ‘The Status of the Verse Epistle before Pope’, 661.
31. Brain, ‘Medicine in Sylvia Plath’s October Poems’, 23.
32. Brontë, Jane Eyre, 370.
33. LILLY. PLATH MSS. II. Box 9 – Memorabilia; Folder 12 – School Awards
and Promotions.
34. LILLY. PLATH MSS. II. Box – Diaries and calendars, 1944–57; Folder 1
(entries for Wednesday 5 April 1944, Saturday 8 April 1944, Sunday
16 April 1944, Friday 26 January 1945).
35. LILLY. iucat.iu.edu/catalog/144090. See ‘Sylvia Plath’s Villette’ in Brain, The
Other Sylvia Plath, 161–74.
36. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye, 5.
37. All citations from The Bell Jar refer to the fiftieth anniversary edition pub-
lished by Faber and Faber in 2013.
38. Parker, ‘In Their Own Words’, 170.
39. Mildorf, ‘Studying Writings in the Second Person’, 74.

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