In a weird way, this book reminds me of James Frey's A Million Little Pieces. Kinda funny, but really not. Kinda biographical, but really not. Frey goes through drug rehabilitation, "Esther" goes to an insane asylum. I felt weird reading this knowing that only within the year of her writing this book, Sylvia Plath would actually succeed in taking her life. What amazing work she could have done if she held on. Where she would be if she didn't go through this in 1963! Had it been now, it would be someone like me and other childless, unmarried women still suffering pressures from society to get married and make babies because if you don't, there's nothing else good for you out there. So with this, I can identify. Only now women stand up against those pressures (though it's still enough to play games with your head).
I love the fact that this book didn't need to get incredibly detailed with private matters when I could figure out when there was sex, or when there was blood shed. I love that Plath left that up to me to figure out, which allowed me to see Plath in such a light that adds to her modesty. Though I'm usually a fan of lavishly written detail - this book was suitable just being simple.
If nothing else, Sylvia Plath's work was not all for naught, writing a biography with a ficticious undertone that likely saved the lives of many young women who felt exactly the same way.