Crochet à la bibliothèque à laquelle j’inscris les enfants et moi-même, directement je vais au rayon « P », et la drôle de joie d’y trouver Sylvia Plath – bien que dans sa version abrégée/censurée par son mari Ted Hughes –, qui dès lors m’accompagne partout, dans la salle d’attente du DMV, à mes pieds dans le 4×4, au bord du lac à Bald Eagle, à mon chevet, dans ma cuisine. Les quelques pages dont je m’infuse au fil de la journée deviennent ligne de vie, ancre, motif or sur fond vert pastel, le réconfort de savoir que tout a déjà été vécu, pensé, souffert, écrit.
I want to write because I have the urge to excel in one medium of translation and expression of life. I can’t be satisfied with the colossal job of merely living. Oh, no, I must order life in sonnets and sestinas and provide a verbal reflector for my 60-watt lighted head. Love is an illusion, but I would willingly fall for it if I could believe in it. Now everything seems either far and sad and cold, like a piece of shale at the bottom of a canyon – or warm and near and unthinking, like the pink dogwood. God, let me think clearly and brightly; let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences, let me someday see who I am and why I accept 4 years of food, shelter, and exams and papers without questioning more than I do. I am tired, banal, and now I am getting not only monosyllabic but also tautological. Tomorrow is another day toward death, (which can never happen to me because I am I which spells invulnerable). Over orange juice and coffee even the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
— Sylvia Plath, The Journals of Sylvia Plath, Ed. 1982.