As I have said to you several times, those who had asked me about Sylvia seem to disbelieve my recollections. But she was in my presence always affirmative, filled with exuberance, in love with life—with an unquenchable relish for the human adventure. Amusingly she seemed quite out of breath with it all. I loved having her come to the house … much hilarity—and, of course, much serious conversation. As you must realize, I came to know her well after three years of having her in class. And I do look back upon our relationship with great fondness.

If I were to single out a word to describe her, it would be radiant.

Sylvia was perhaps too dutiful, too eager to please, to stand out in stereotypical fashion as an aloof, mercurial intellectual destined for greatness. She looked wholesome and, as she frequently said, tanned well. She liked to bike and play tennis, a game a neighbor boy, Phil McCurdy, taught her. Unlike other males, he did not seem especially daunted by a girl who scored 160 on an IQ test and could be formidable in conversation. By her junior year of high school, Sylvia was going out on dates and would not, for very long, be without the attentions of a boy like Perry Norton, who lived close by. There were many others throughout her years in school.

Looks mattered to Sylvia. So did what she wore. So did matters like good manners and diction. She complained that a couple of girls at camp used words like “ain’t” and “youse” that hurt her ears. They were “not well brought up.” A middle-class sense of propriety remained a very strong feature of this poet even when she lived among the loucher types of the literary world. Her acerbic comments about people were a form of scrubbing away the squalor that surrounded some writers and other denizens of arty conclaves. Her favorite radio heroes—the Lone Ranger, The Shadow, and Superman—were part of a sort of cleanup detail, making the world morally immaculate. Sylvia had a visceral dislike of messes—moral and otherwise—that accounts for her extreme reactions later in life to her husband’s appalling physical and moral hygiene.

Aurelia, and later Ted Hughes, never felt comfortable with Sylvia’s astringent observations about themselves and others. They never seemed to realize that what seemed hurtful to others entertained Sylvia, who was by nature a satirist, as Diane Middlebrook clearly shows. This satirical bent explains why Jack Benny was so appealing to Sylvia during her teenage years. Benny’s radio program relentlessly mocked his shortcomings, making fun of his violin playing, his toupee, his stinginess, and even his effeminate way of walking. The program ran a nationwide contest with $10,000 in prizes, asking listeners to complete the phrase, “Why I hate Jack Benny.” Sad to say, there is no way of knowing if Sylvia submitted an entry. A running gag in the show featured movie star Ronald Colman and his wife, forever trying to avoid meetings with Benny, their bumptious neighbor. And Jack gave as good as he got, making fun of his obese announcer, Don Wilson (who was so fat he got stuck in armchairs), mocking the shiftless Rochester, and ridiculing Phil Harris, the program’s band leader, who could not read music—or anything else, for that matter. Sylvia had a habit of mind that naturally reveled in this kind of put down, which audiences encouraged by laughing uproariously at Jack, whether he was the butt of a joke or its author. Benny’s kind of joking—the puncturing of pretentions, including his own—had an aggressive edge. His program regulars tried to outdo one another with comic insults, which built to a crescendo of audience laughter in the best shows. The high energy of these Sunday night programs had obvious appeal for Sylvia and millions of others readying themselves for another workweek. Indeed, anything that could make the competitive nature of society a pleasing diversion had enormous appeal for a young mind as serious as Sylvia’s.

Wilbury Crockett’s classes brought out Sylvia’s competitive nature. After Crockett described a lengthy reading list and extensive writing assignments, one third of the first day’s class did not return for another lesson, instead transferring to a less demanding section. He developed a cadre of twenty superior students called “Crocketeers.” Otto Plath would have approved of Crockett’s intellectual esprit de corps. This notion of an elect—an elite literary strike force that was also political in nature, keeping abreast of the latest developments in Europe and elsewhere—spurred Sylvia to write about subjects such as the Korean War and the atomic bomb, faithfully following her father’s pacifist politics.

In the spring of 1947, Sylvia began writing to a pen pal, a German teenager named Hans-Joachim Neupert. They would exchange letters over the next five years, revealing, on Sylvia’s side, a keen desire to discover what the war had been like for a young boy living in a devastatingly bombed landscape. She was acutely aware of her own safe suburban upbringing, mentioning that the life of an American teenager must seem frivolous to Hans. Didn’t he think that, in the end, war was futile? She told him she was considering careers as a foreign correspondent, a newspaper reporter, an author, or an artist. In later letters, she spoke of her writing and the rejections she had received from various publications. These last never seemed to discourage her. She already had the attitude of a professional who realizes that for every acceptance there are scores of dismissals.

In subsequent letters she drew a map of Massachusetts, stretching from Salem to Winthrop to Boston, Cambridge, Wellesley, and Boston Bay, where a sea serpent is shown popping out of the water with a balloon message: “Hello Hans!” The serpent’s tongue and perky back flipper are visible above the calm water. But below the water line lurks a dragon-like figure with a long serpentine tongue.

Hans was evidently a good correspondent (his letters have not survived). Sylvia complimented him on his writing, revealing a good deal about her own temperament, which was so much like the sea, changing from “one mood to another—from high waves on dark, stormy days, to tranquil ripples on sunny days.” She found it disturbing that so much history was happening while her own surroundings were complacent and placid compared to the horrors Hans had witnessed.

These letters explain a good deal about the poet who wrote “Daddy” and her desire to integrate her own family story with the Holocaust. Even at this young age, she felt touched by history that had not yet touched her. Here was a sensibility that felt implicated in what had been done to Hans and his people. She wanted to “plunge into the vital world,” acknowledging ruefully that war could not be as real to her as it had been to Hans. It bothered her that this should be so. Expressions of yearning to go abroad to remedy the insufficiency of her own comfortable upbringing are startling to read in the prose of a tenth grader. Only two years later she would confide to her journal that she felt the “weight of centuries” suffocating her.

Sylvia spoke of her connection to Europe through her Austrian grandparents. Indeed, Aurelia had spoken German growing up in her family, the Schobers, and Sylvia heard stories about the anti-German sentiment abroad in America during World War I, when Aurelia was growing up in a primarily Irish neighborhood. Rather than rejecting her ethnic background, Sylvia said she took “patriotic pride” in it. She made a point of giving an oral report about Thomas Mann, a world famous author and anti-Fascist who had become a celebrated figure in America. She told Hans that in class she had read aloud part of his letter describing Mann’s recent visit to Germany.

Sylvia sometimes stayed with her grandparents when her mother was working full time in order to afford extras like camp for both her children. In Sylvia’s journal, she mentions Grampy’s admiration for everything she does and Grammy’s rich recipes, which appealed to a child with an enormous appetite. Sylvia was also fond of her Uncle Frank, who came to her in dreams dressed as Superman. This extended family, with ties to the “old country,” made Sylvia acutely conscious of what it meant to be an American, while also giving her, at a very young age, a remarkably cosmopolitan perspective that helped her shy away from any form of jingoism.