On [:] Bliss | Sylvia Plath, 1932-63

John Nash, The Viaduct, c 1916

“On the train: staring hypnotized at the blackness outside the window, feeling the incomparable rhythmic language of the wheels, clacking out nursery rhymes, summing up moments of the mind like the chant of a broken record: god is dead, god is dead. going, going, going. and the pure bliss of this, the erotic rocking of the coach. France splits open like a ripe fig in the mind; we are raping the land, we are not stopping.”

Sylvia Plath, 1932-63, The Unabridged Journals