Dear Sylvia,

Yesterday, while browsing in a bookstore in Bern, I stumbled upon the letter you wrote to your psychiatrist on February 4, 1963. I heard the voice of a clinically depressed, sensitive artist, and mother, making a colossal effort to keep her head above water.

“I write from London where I have found a flat & an au pair and can see ahead financially for about a year…What appals me is the return of my madness, my paralysis, my fear & vision of the worst…” [1]

Exactly one week later, at the age of thirty, you took your own life.

Emotions overtook me. Grief, for your short life. Rage, for seeing this letter in the public domain. Disgust for the “70% off” red sticker on the book cover, on a black and white photo of you. Perhaps that was the final offence.

Feeling dizzy, I looked around for a chair. I flipped through the pages looking for answers, who authorized the publication of such intimate correspondence? Your daughter, Frieda Hughes, I read. She learnt of the letters’ existence when a dealer tried to sell them on the Internet. Some extracts had been published to demonstrate authenticity to interested bidders.

When they came in possession of your college, Smith College, your daughter was finally able to read them. And she decided the letters should be published. “In truth, neither I nor anyone else should ever have known…