I devour books. Occasionally, in a single sitting.
Reading at the dinner table, a terrible habit. (I know.)
Below. My latest. I nibbled at it over a week.
Naturally, the cover caught my eye.
First sighting: Tenement Museum, Lower East Side.
(Resisted.) But again: Paperchain, Manuka. (Fate, no?)
I'll never know Sylvia Plath.
But I see myself in her, aged twenty.
Dreaming. Writing. Dressing up. Traipsing. Living.
In the words of an ex-boyfriend,
'[she] drained the cup to the leaves, the very dregs.'
I get a little frightened when I think of life slipping through my fingers, like water... so fast that I have little time to stop running I have to keep on like the White Queen to stay in the same place.
- Sylvia Plath (Letters Home) -
Sensitive. Intelligent. Ambitious. Observant. Imaginative.
Literary. Elegant. She loved words, beauty. Aesthete.
Poetess. Novelist (of one). Artist.
In New York, Sylvia realized that reputations are built not on perfection but on the rough diamond-cut brightness of individual personalities. Something had opened up in New York – the shadows had come out, and they were dancing all over her naïveté, stamping on it. Even the mistakes, the ragged slips and tumbles, were now brimming with possibilities.
- Pain, Parties, Work by Elizabeth Winder -