“Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand.”
— Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath: 1950-1962 (ed. Karen V. Kukil)
