showstoppers like "Daddy" and "Lady Lazarus"--profane, bombastically crazy--but there's another voice too, a quieter voice that mutters as if entranced: "The comets/Have such a space to cross . . ." The beginning of "Cut," meanwhile, detours into the bruising Salingerian deadpan of The Bell Jar: "What a thrill--/My thumb instead of an onion./The top quite gone/Except for a sort of a hinge."
The book's impact, nonetheless, is total. In visions and maledictions, and weird singsong, the poems straggle across the page like disemboweled nursery rhymes.
from The Atlantic: Why Sylvia Plath Still Haunts Us
then The Telegraph: Juliet Stevenson: Why Sylvia Plath is becoming more relevant for men