By the roots of my hair some god got hold of me.

It feels very strange marking this collection as read in 2024 when I've spent so much of my life reading Sylvia Plath's work, including many poems that are included in Ariel.

Even being introduced to her when I was in the early years of high school (standard cliche), I knew that she, as a writer, was something special. From The Bell Jar's fig tree analogy to lines as simple as Eternity bores me, / I never wanted it (a quote I reblogged repetitively and shamelessly on my Tumblr blog as a teenager), Sylvia Plath has a way of writing that's reminiscent of being cut by a knife that's been just been sharpened.

You don't feel it as it's happening. Maybe a sharp and fleeting sting. You don't even realize you've been cut until you look down and see blood, and only when you do can you actually register that you've been in the pain the whole time.