The door of the novel, like the door of the poem, also shuts. But not so fast, nor with such manic, unanswerable finality.
Sylvia PlathI didn’t want my picture taken because I was going to cry. I didn’t know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I’d cry for a week. I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full.
Sylvia Plath