Aesthetic criticism returns us to the autonomy of imaginative literature and the sovereignty of the solitary soul, the reader not as a person in society but as the deep self, our ultimate inwardness.

Why is it the big, fukkin’, friendly ones who die, Staff?” “They’re not the only ones who die, Werst, it’s just we miss them more than the short, fukkin’, cranky ones.

A small, answering point in my own body flew toward it. I felt my lungs inflate with the inrush of scenery- air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, "This is what it is to be happy.

Written By Sylvia Plath

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