It's the only line highlighted in the whole book. My copy was used but there it is, the titular phrase. It's a lovely, sad book. And the highlight had faded so much I had to look twice to see it. It doesn't show up in this photo, the highlight, but it does, if you're looking for it. It's quirky like that. Like you're seeing things, which is poetry because it's here the protagonist is losing her shit. I mean, it's slowly getting lost in a beautiful, tragic way throughout the book, in a way that seems a little too real, or too understandable. Too possible. Sylvia Plath's mother tried to block the publication of The Bell Jar because it was semi-autobiographical.
She only wrote the one book, finished anyway, but wrote a lot of poetry, only one collection of which was published before she committed suicide in 1963. She's a fantastic writer. I don't have many pages left to read, and I'm hesitant, because then I'll have no more of her books to read, nothing more of hers to look forward to.
I'll chase down her poems, I suppose, and read the rest of this book over the weekend. It's supposed to rain, after all, and what better way to spend a rainy Sunday?
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