Sandra

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The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho
The Alchemist
by Paulo Coelho (Goodreads Author)
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A Susan Sontag Reader by Susan Sontag
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Letters of Note by Shaun Usher
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I'll Take You There by Greg Kot
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How to Build a Girl by Caitlin Moran
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10 by Ben Lerner
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The Empathy Exams by Leslie Jamison
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Lila by Marilynne Robinson
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The Short and Tragic Life of Robert Peace by Jeff Hobbs
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We Are Not Ourselves by Matthew  Thomas
We Are Not Ourselves
by Matthew Thomas (Goodreads Author)
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More of Sandra's books…
Sylvia Plath
“let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences”
Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath
“Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.”
Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath
“To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.”
Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Sylvia Plath
“I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.”
Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath
“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

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