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The New York Times had an article yesterday.

Kathleen Hanna, the founder of the Riot Grrrl music movement, is archiving her materials at New York University. She's 44, the same age as me.

Like many writers, I've had these silly thoughts that my letters, journals, and the process of my work might matter. But I've come to realize that what will probably happen is that some relative or a hired cleaner will throw a huge amount of paper into the recycling bin. This will continue until my life reaches about the mid-90s. Then the paper trail stops. Someone will look at a chip, feel a moment of guilt, and then dispose of it.

Part of the charm of "The Silent Woman" is reliving the experiences of those writers who thought that details like who they married or had coffee with would be future Norton Anthology material. Plath died before "Ariel" made her an icon, and perhaps her death was the publicity event that ensured her canonization. But Ted Hughes regularly went to archive himself. Can't you just picture those letters all tied up with twine?

However, I digress. Malcolm wrote this book in the early nineties, right before digital communication took over. Hughes was still alive, and so was his extremely protective sister Olwyn, whose life became centered around managing the Plath estate and the image of her brother.

Was Plath a narcissistic, manipulative woman with Borderline personality disorder? Was Hughes an egomaniacal bully who abandoned his wife and two kids for a younger woman?

Malcolm's point is that while certain facts exist, the meaning of those facts is a complete mess. She shatters the traditional beginning, middle, end biography structure. She never really tells the "story" of Plath's life at all. Instead, she questions the ability to write a biography by showing the absurdity of the omniscient, third-person point of view. The story then becomes about Malcolm's attempt to write a biography and the problems with the form. She details her encounters with Olwyn Hughes, with other biographers, and the fallouts that authors and subjects suffered from publications. She even includes the correspondence that took place during her process.

As someone who has had to deal with the Laura Ingalls Wilder "estate," it was fascinating to follow another writer trying to untangle something that is irrevocably knotted and fiercely protected. Also, I liked how Malcolm, a woman from the same era as Plath, examined what it was like to be a woman in the repressed fifties, pretending she could simply wish away the chains, only to find self-doubt lurking around every corner.

I don't remember much of this book.

However, I do recall that when I read it, I derived profound enjoyment from it.

The story within its pages must have had a certain allure that captivated my attention and engaged my emotions.

Perhaps it was the unique characters, the thrilling plot, or the beautiful prose that made it so memorable.

Even though the details have faded from my memory, the overall feeling of pleasure and satisfaction that I experienced while reading this book still lingers.

It serves as a reminder of the power of literature to transport us to different worlds and evoke strong emotions within us.

I would love to revisit this book again someday and rediscover the magic that it held for me.

Until then, I will cherish the memories of the enjoyment that it brought me and continue to explore other works of literature in search of similar experiences.

How is it that I never read Janet Malcolm (beyond the occasional New Yorker article) before? I was prompted to do so by Malcolm's recent passing.

Malcolm was a remarkable writer, and her work, especially The Silent Woman, offers a fascinating exploration.

The Silent Woman delves into the complex and often controversial nature of biography. Malcolm chooses Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes as her subjects, a topic rife with drama and debate.

The common narrative is that Plath, a tormented artist, was driven to despair by Hughes's extramarital affairs and ultimately took her own life. Hughes is thus cast as the adulterous villain responsible for the loss of Plath's great talent.

However, Malcolm doesn't simply accept this story. She courageously engages with Olwyn Hughes, Ted's sister and executor of the Plath estate. Olwyn was a formidable figure, either challenging or intimidating many biographers. Malcolm also tracks down Plath's biographers to understand their methods and conclusions.

In the end, Malcolm arrives at her own interpretations, which I won't disclose here. Suffice it to say that reading this book made me eager to explore more of her work. She was a brilliant and perceptive writer, and I'm grateful to have finally discovered her.

Her insights and writing style are truly captivating, and I look forward to delving deeper into her body of work.