“And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.”
— Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
Yesterday was the 50th anniversary of Sylvia Plath's death. Of all the many tributes I read to her yesterday, this was my favourite. The colourful photograph with Plath smiling that accompanies the post has haunted me all day.
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