This is a fascinating collection of poems. There is something so satisfying about the verses in here. It’s evident that Sylvia Plath had a kaleidoscopic view of reality. That is, she didn’t see everything, but her vision was unique. She can paint the most beautiful picture with her words, but then–with a turn of the kaleidoscope–everything becomes jagged, surreal, and painful. This is the archetypal vision of the depressed person: the writer believes she sees the world as it is, and the world may very well be this way, but it’s also more than that. Even so, Plath’s poems resonate very heavily with me, and there is no way anyone else could have written with such verve. Her poems don’t carry the Bergsonian élan vital, but perhaps its dark inversion: some sort of élan abîmal.