My inner life is nothing but fragments, shards of glass, funhouse mirrors. I’ll tell you in a letter what I want
you to hear, what I wish were the facts.
How different than truth, truth is in the mouth of the teller, the mind of the beholder, truth is flesh.
Facts are stone.
Alas, I a split between what is and what I say, what I want and what I pray. My present is unwrapped, soiled by yesterday’s fierce compression, by tomorrow’s terrors. I slip into the present like it was a dirty dress, ripped, ravaged, stained.
Marc Goldfinger, from the poem “When I Say I Must Write – – – -” ; the book “The Resurrection of Sylvia Plath”