na·ïve·té

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 -