In the end, Assia too would commit suicide, perhaps realizing that she had been no betterthan Plath and was merely a tonic prescriped offering Hughes a slight reprieve from his intense and passionate wife, Sylvia. It mattered little that he had chosen Assia; no matter what happened, Hughes would always be Sylvia's husband - it was a fact from which he could never escape, and the same held true for Plath. Neither was whole wihtout the other.
As i walk around the town here, the windy beach with it's rough tide, i think of Plath - how she loved the ocean, the sun, all that is light and fierce and strong, and i can't help but feel that with all of the incredible breadth of work she left us, there was so much more to say - just as there is more to say in this piece and no doubt, i will add to it here. I know that for Sylvia, her main accomplishment was her own death in which she "wears the smile of accomplishment."
Later, i will walk to Otto Plath's grave, only a few blocks West of where i live, and i will walk the Azalea Path, as she said, and find my way there - this author of "Bees and Their Ways" - a signed copy of which i have, and i will feel the terrible loss for a love that could have been the powerhouse of the literary world. That Plath and Hughes were better together than apart; that i think Sylvia was right about them being parts of the same whole, and i will know what a waste it has been to lose both to a thing so trite as lust, as adultery as a cheap moment that was never worth all this.