My husband recently bought me an impossibly tattered copy of Sylvia Plath's THE BELL JAR. {I love it when books are already broken in.} I'm only two pages in, and I'm completely enamored by her aptitude for writing. Her fourth paragraph completely capitulates how I felt my first few years out of college;
"(I knew something was wrong with me that summer, because all I could think about was the Rosenbergs and how stupid I'd been to buy all those uncomfortable, expensive clothes, hanging limp as fish in my closet, and how all the little successes I'd totted up so happily at college fizzled to nothing outside the slick marble and plate glass fronts along Madison Avenue.)" -Sylvia Plath
