Today, remembering Sylvia Plath, on the day of her birth…October 27th 1932.
Another writer tormented by demons, Sylvia has the distinction by many as being the poet of death.
Her works were the voice of her inner torment…..a torment that ended tragically by her own hands…February 11. 1963. It was one of the coldest winters in London, perhaps that coldness of her own soul became inescapable as well.
The last thing she did was leave two mugs of milk and buttered bread for her two small children.
Milk, buttered bread and a legacy of words for all of us.
“because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
May the sweet air of heaven surround her soul ………….