There is a moment for me, when reading a piece of writing, when art breaches the boundary between self-expression and embodiment. Many works eventually approach this threshold. But while reading Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus by Mary Shelley, there is no such boundary—no singular moment when the work transforms from fiction into something more intimate. There is no moment of genuine embodiment because the entire novel reads like a poem of mourning, a eulogy, a confes

I read The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath in my twenties, and no piece of writing has ever felt more like home to me. I don’t recall every minute detail of the story, but I remember how I felt reading it—the emotions it carried, and the emotions within myself that it seemed to recognize. I carried those feelings with me for years, but most of all, I carried you, Esther Greenwood, describing your descent into madness and your eventual ascension out of it. I saw myself in both versio

Last night I dreamt of a nameless woman— A lovely, unusual name formed on her lips but dissolved before it reached me. I woke with the feeling that I had almost known her—yet she remained a stranger. It was no coincidence, I think, that I had been rereading Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier when my dreams became haunted—fully submerged in its gothic atmosphere and quiet mystery. I have spent my evenings marvelling at du Maurier’s ability to carry me through time and space so seam

Content Warning: This review discusses sexual abuse, coercion, and trauma. The memoir itself contains graphic depictions of abuse that may be triggering. I read Ordeal by Linda Lovelace over the holiday break. Or, more accurately, I devoured it—and it devoured me in return, body and soul, leaving nothing behind. No trace remaining of the woman I was before I read it. It inhabited me. Not in the way great literature does—through beautiful prose that lingers like perfume, or a