Not a lot of people know this, but Sylvia Plath could read people’s minds. You know, like a psychic. But for real, of course: no fancy headscarves or loopy earrings. She didn’t jangle when she walked. It was a straightforward gift, not one she needed to decorate.
And it made her sick to her stomach.
There were rules, of course. She could only do it at night, she had to touch you to make it happen, and the less clothing involved, the better. So if you wanted a reading, you’d find yourself naked in her kitchen at one in the morning staring at Sylvia in her nightgown.
She wrote about it once, this is what she said:
“We put notes on paper. We put songs on paper, but that’s not music. I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know.”