What is this blog all about?

I decided to write this blog after realising how much literature has helped me, be it through times of stress, sadness or even when feeling fantastic. I was two weeks into the UK's pandemic-caused lockdown when i began to see how much i had begun to rely on novels and poetry to get me through. I then remembered when i first started reading regularly, and it suddenly hit me. I had tried to start reading regularly many times and failed before i figured out what books to read and created a 'reading rhythm'. It occurred to me that perhaps it might be beneficial for me to share some novels to get people reading, and then realised i could do more than that. How about a place to share ideas? What about posting about authors i like? I'm not writing this in an attempt to glorify my blog, it's just a blog after all! But, perhaps it will inspire some of you to read or reflect upon literature, or maybe its just a nice way to learn something new.

The posts i write will almost always be about great female writers, but my book recommendations, anecdotes or favourite quotations will cover literature as a whole. Feel free to suggest any authors you would like me to talk about!

Here is some food for thought to get you started.

Lady Lazarus BY SYLVIA PLATH I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it—— A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?—— The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot—— The big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call. It’s easy enough to do it in a cell. It’s easy enough to do it and stay put. It’s the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: ‘A miracle!’ That knocks me out. There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart—— It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. Ash, ash— You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.