The Magazine No. 010 001

Earlier, on the ground floor, in English Fiction, I had asked a charming young man to help me. “Yes, I’m familiar with her work,” he said. My heart lifted. And then sank disproportionately when he continued, after a pause, “I associate her poems with those of Sylvia Plath.” Alas, though Woolf wrote rhythmic poetic prose, she was never a poet. The only possible association was that both women lost their lives to suicide.