din din din

-…ea, e genul de fată ce stă acasă.
-El, e genul de baiat ce umblă noaptea pe stradă.

-…ea, înjură fără rușine.
-El, are bun simț și își cere scuze.

-…ea, nu fumează.
-El, rulează.

-…ea, bea cu sticla.
-El, bea cu paharul.

-…amândoi sunt în egală măsură…
-Când înger, când demon.

—  eu

Sylvia Plath’s voice, reading her poems on tape, is a daunting, not to say intimidating, astonishment. It is not, as you would expect so many decades after her death, ghostly, a vaporish backwash; it is instead a voice made of marble, the diction burnished, precise, almost inhumanly perfected: as if Eliot’s tones, so pervasive in that period, had, with all the authority of their ritualized cadences, been transfused into a woman’s veins. The voice is dark and deep and dangerous, the sound not of youth but of some overripe being, an old woman, or even an old man; its register is surprisingly low and nearly sinister; it surprises and unsettles.
-Cynthia Ozick, from The Din in the Head