Un domingo de calma tras una semana bastante intensa.

Vuelvo a la Plath, a Hughes… supongo que son muchos los aspectos de una persona que puede dilucidarse en función de su inclinación hacia Ariel y las Birthday Letters. A la tragedia y la ironía en carne viva en ‘Lady Lazarus’ (“I have done it again. / One year in every ten / I manage it — / … Dying / Is an art, like everything else. / I do it exceptionally well. / I do it so it feels like hell. / I do it so it feels real. / I guess you could say I’ve a call”) — al tejer y destejer de la memoria en ‘9 Willow Street’ (“Freed from school / For the first time in your life, this was the cage / Your freedom flew to — a view of the Charles River / And Cambridge beyond it… / Alone / Either of us might have met with a life. / Siamese-twinned, each of us festering / A unique soul-sepsis for the other, / Each of us was the stake / Impaling the other. We struggled / Quietly through the streets, affirming each other, / Dream-maimed and dream-blind”).

Pasear por Beacon Hill, con su tormenta al fondo.