Read two extraordinarily powerful poems by Sylvia Plath earlier this evening. Written in just two days, at the end of September 1962 and the beginning of October, they clearly come from a place of despair and anger. Of the two I think I found The Detective the more disturbing - I literally shivered at the end - but A Birthday Present runs it close in terms of making the reader feel guilty at seeming to intrude on such private yet universal pain.
I was sitting in the Ya Kun outlet at Clementi Mall whilst reading, enjoying a cuppa and kaya toast with the Missus. A happy place for us, always. So strange. Being in two such different places at the same time.
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