I opened the door and blinked out into the bright hall. I had the impression it wasn't night and it wasn't day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end.
Sylvia PlathIf I have a dry spell ... I wait and live harder, eyes, ears, and heart open, and when the productive time comes, it is that much richer.
Sylvia PlathThe door of the novel, like the door of the poem, also shuts. But not so fast, nor with such manic, unanswerable finality.
Sylvia Plath