Sylvia Plath would have turned 81 years old today. It’s a strange thing to imagine. Plath’s reputation as a poet is so sadly bound up with her death by suicide at the age of 30, and so many of the lines in her later poetry sound like suicide notes, that it seems impossible to picture her making it to old age. In “Lady Lazarus,” Plath writes: “Dying/Is an art, like everything else./I do it exceptionally well.”
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