Then, brothers, it came. Oh, bliss, bliss and heaven. I lay all nagoy to the ceiling, my gulliver on my rookers on the pillow, glazzies closed, rot open in bliss, slooshying the sluice of lovely sounds. Oh, it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh.

I always wear flat shoes, because I can&#39;t walk in anything else.

Writing, then, was a substitute for myself: if you don't love me, love my writing &amp; love me for my writing. It is also much more: a way of ordering and reordering the chaos of experience.

Written By Sylvia Plath

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