I read the eleven poems comprising Howls & Whispers before we set off on our Sunday morning jaunt. Impossible not to read them rapidly in succession, yet they offer nothing in the way of a genuine resolution to the pain and loss that feeds them. I can't think of any sensible response to the tragedy of Sylvia Plath's life other than bewilderment - and a deep, deep sadness at what her tragedy did to all around her.
I suppose at some level we assume our lives will take on some kind of coherence when fully played out. It's salutary to be faced with the fact that we'll be lucky if we manage to make some kind of sense even to ourselves.
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