Dear Mr. Hughes

You'll always be an @&*%$^# to me.

Seriously, Jezebel of all places insists that this letter should make me cry. Instead, it makes me about ten kinds of stabby. I mean, he's British and everything, but such restraint and rhetoric and the omission of a certain oh, minor fact! This does not convince me of his remorse in the slightest. One of the commenters compared Hughes' and Plath's relationship to a Greek tragedy in its self-perpetuated romanticization of turmoil and despair. I'd say that's a pretty fair analysis. The mask hasn't been dropped here.


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