sylvia plath genuinely has (or had, but i hate using past tense) the most beautiful mind in the world. i really love the way she words her stories, and she's also the only author i've read who really focuses on what it was like to be a woman in the 1950s, aside from Roald Dahl, who i feel like mainly focused on what it was like to be a murdering woman in the 1950s. i loved all the short stories, even if i feel like they came to rather abrupt ends. the diary entries were definitely my favourite part of this book, though. i can't believe that a person can just sit down and write like that. it feels unreal to me. how are you just spewing pure poetry about the party you went to last night. how does that happen.

anyway, i'll choose not to question it (further). you're an icon, sylvia!!