Life is amazingly simplified,” she wrote in her journal, “now that the recalcitrant forsythia has at last decided to come and blurt out springtime in petalled fountains of yellow. In spite of reams of papers to be written, life has snitched a cocaine sniff of sun-worship and salt air, and all looks promising.” She already adored New York.
Elizabeth Winder, Pain, Parties, Work: Sylvia Plath in New York, Summer 1953
happiness, new-york-city, nyc