Sylvia Plath is arguably the best-known and most iconic poet of her generation. Try to imagine, for instance, a major Hollywood studio producing a film about any of her contemporaries, much less casting an A-list actor, Gwyneth Paltrow, in the feature role. This reputation rests largely on one volume of poetry, Ariel, and a novel, The Bell Jar, that, while very good, would not be nearly as well known, nor so often taught, if not for the incandescence of the poetry. Ariel had this tremendous impact for three interlocking reasons. One, it is extraordinary, unmistakably original poetry. Two, its psychological intensity remains palpable four decades after its shocking debut. Three, its publication followed the suicide of the poet, who was young, beautiful and married to another major poet of the era. There is no way to separate these elements. As brilliant as the poetry is, there has been a good deal of excellent poetry written in the past forty years that has not earned international celebrity for its authors. Moreover, it is important not to separate aesthetic achievement, psychological extremity and biographical scandal. It is precisely this convergence that struck a nerve with postwar readers.