She’s one I think about the most, really. After all, I, along with thousands of other bookish females with a tendency towards blue, have worshipped her every word since finding The Bell Jar in the school library at fifteen. Sylvia! we cry. Oh, there have been armies of us, knobby-elbowed girls poring over her tangled prose while aching away on our twin beds.
Katie Crouch writes about suicide and Sylvia Plath over on Buzzfeed. (The essay was originally published in the journal ZYZZYVA.)
Books are the plane, and the train, and the road. They are the destination, and the journey. They are home.