Supernovas in Ink: Sylvia Plath & Virginia Woolf

On Melancholy, Creativity, and Timeless Connection

I wrote in my planner today to create something coherent, but all I have are scattered thoughts about two of the greatest writers of all time: Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath so. After only four hours of sleep, I doubt my incoherent musings will make for good writing, but I’ll give it my best shot.

Is it morbid that I look at Sylvia Plath’s diaries and think to myself, “Feed me, feed me”? I ask her to bless me with the feeling of commiseration, of being seen. I want her to overfeed me with her delicious words, each sentence more intoxicating than the last.

And Virginia Woolf too—I dip into her letters slowly, standing at the edge of her mind and underlining every moment of shared understanding between us, as though we were waving at each other from opposite sides of a square.

My mother birds, my mind cries. I’m sorry for peeking into your private thoughts, but they are so achingly beautiful, like a supernova, and I can’t take my eyes off the star imploding on the page.

I wish I could reach through the paper and hold your hands. Virginia, meet Sylvia. Sylvia, this is Virginia. I think you two would get on.

You sit at a café in my mind—Sylvia, glamorous and haunted; Virginia, in her quirky hat, equally ethereal. I wish I could tell you that your names are etched into the hearts of so many girls and that your prose cradles them gently through their troubles.

We read your thoughts, your hopes, your pain—and in doing so, we feel a hunger for life and experience. Your legacy exists in the books we underline and our thoughts on almost anything.

Sylvia and Virginia. You are the solace of the night, the fire in our words. You’ll always be in some quiet corner of my mind, eternal and intertwined.