From The Bell Jar
Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
“Only I wasn’t steering anything, not even myself. I just bumped from my hotel to work and to parties and from parties to my hotel and back to work like a numb trolleybus. I guess I should have been excited the way most of the other girls were, but I couldn’t get myself to react. (I felt very still and very empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.)”
I’m not sure what’s harder—not being distracted by Plath’s enormous talent, or by her tragic death, which haunts these pages.