I spoke with Sylvia Plath today...

And she said that there was a way for men to live without books and college. She was utterly content with her present situation, alone and ineffably warm, her body as quiet as the still air that undoubtedly dampened the room, a glass of milk sat beside her idly, as if quietly contemplating the room and thus becoming part of it in the process for a milk has no thoughts and could never be a cloud of thoughts as we are. Her eyes viscous and racing as her fingers mingled with the fresh scent of the strawberry runners she had planted just hours before setting herself down a spell to write, to think. She said that those are the times she'd call herself a fool to ask for more, I suggest that perhaps she has found eternal life. An eternity, because without books one might soon run out of words, and then one is left only to one's own thoughts, without words one is left to the illimitable production of thoughts. Without a means to make corpses of them, to bury them steadily on paper they expand infinitely like a cancer, and that is the eternal life of man, a universe of life contained in the cloud of being, a remorseless cancer, unending life.