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Apple of My Eye: Objectification in Slyvia Plath's Ariel Tastes Not So Sweet

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The Apple of my Eye:

Objectification tastes not so sweet in Sylphia Plath’s ​Ariel

By Nicole Vento

In her collection of poetry, ​Ariel​, Sylvia Plath’s metier becomes set designer as equally as

it is poet. Her sets look familiar to her audience: a countryside dotted by flowers and hills, her

Victorian home, the beach, a train departing it’s station, yet Plath’s genius paranoia and sneering

suspicions strip these traditional domestic spaces from any sense of comfort or familiarity they

may imbue us with. Like that of the most gifted of artists, her process fashions a new truth for

her audience and even though many a reader and critic would like it to be certain, whether or not

this is Plath’s own truth cannot ever fully be known.

One of the conflicts central to Plath’s poems is the narrator’s dual attraction and repulsion

to material objects. Make no mistake, the narrator is drawn to objects despite her obvious distrust

of them. They catch her eye, “shimmering like curtains,” and she is quick to profess their beauty.

However, her appreciation belies the core of the conflict: by virtue of their attractiveness, objects

possess a very real, hypnotic, and terrifying ability to control and create us.

In early development, possession of an external object can confer a protective element

onto the possessor. Screaming babies are soothed, entertained, or puzzled by their baubles and

blankets. This preoccupation assures they are no longer in distress. Objects become valuable by

virtue of this functionality. But what happens when the baby’s dummy, or favorite doudou, is

finally taken away? For most children, save for a brief period of distress, nothing dire. Others
might become inconsolable, because their ability to self-soothe is entirely dependent upon the

thing in question.

The idea that objects create an identity is not a novel one at all. People buy products that

they feel will reflect and curate their uniqueness. Stripped of its props, a movie set is no longer

an upper-class family’s living room, but just an ordinarily, sad soundstage. A Hitchock film

without a McGuffin is no Hitchcock film at all.

Plath expresses the conundrum of possession best with her poem, “The Applicant.” The

applicant appears on the scene as a naked creature completely untouched by material culture.

Over the course of the poem, the applicant is offered items that the interviewer considers

invaluable to the human experience. These objects include a suit, a symbol of high

socioeconomic status, and a hand, so that the applicant will be well equipped to acquire and

handle new objects. “Will you marry it?,” the interviewer asks, when presenting the applicant

with each prize. Of the suit, the interviewer ssures, “[...] they’ll bury you in it,” suggesting that

being buried in such finery would inflate the general public’s opinion of the applicant and

immortalize him in their memory.

But the choices that the applicant is presented with don’t seem very much to be choices at

all. If he commits to these objects in a symbolic “marriage” of sorts, his success is guaranteed

and he will be welcomed into the fold. If he doesn’t, hope for him is lost; the interviewer

stresses that these commitments are his “last resort.” However, the applicant would not be remiss

in having doubts about this arrangement. Even in death, he would forever be remembered in

terms that he himself had no hand in construing. The narrator does limit her distrust of

relationships to only material objects. Human relationships are subject to the same suspicion. Her
famed applicant is offered a wife with the same sales pitch that he is offered the other objects.

She is equally functional: “a living doll, everywhere you look/ It can sew, it can cook/It can talk,

talk, talk.”

If human beings need to be in possession of certain objects or relationships to be

successful in society, can one ever be certain of who they are to others; can they be certain that

they aren’t just a means to an end? If the looking glass theory is correct, and ​people’s conception

of themselves comes from how others perceive them to be, can one even be certain of who they

are to themselves in such uncertain conditions?​ These quandaries are the narrator’s main

preoccupations in Ariel, and it seems that she is wont to reject, rather than accept material

relationships under these terms. The words of the narrator in “The Courier” confirm this: “​The

word of a snail on the plate of a leaf?​/ ​It is not mine. Do not accept it./Acetic acid in a sealed

tin?/Do not accept it. It is not genuine.​/ A ​ring​ of gold with the sun in it?/ ​Lies. Lies and a grief.​”

Does this mean that current society must act in the same extreme manner and reject these

relationships to save ourselves? When we see how Ariel’s metacognitive narrator is unable to

escape the doubts of her existence just as Plath was incapable of escaping her own, we are

tempted to answer in the affirmate. But whether we must undertake such action depends entirely

on a similarly personal fortitude, which literary works such as ​Ariel​, become instrumental in

helping us evaluate.

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