I want to make a bold assumption, that is, Hughes is devoted to her, loves her, appreciates all her talents and beauty, then what will Silvia's life be like. Will she still write those poems, and will she open up the gas?
I didn't excuse Hughes out of sympathy, or I was sentimental for Sylvia because I sympathized with her. I am not qualified. I just know that that kind of complete loneliness is absolutely real. The sad thing, or the ridiculous thing, is that, as I said in the above assumption, Silvia will still turn on the gas in the beauty of reality. Can realistic love melt the ice in the heart?
Some people will use Silvia, or Kafka and others' backgrounds to explain the struggle and tearing, beauty and sadness in their works. I think this is just to conceal their timidity and make themselves unable to face. Give me an excuse for these. Sakyamuni was a great saint. Of course, what I meant initially was that he had compassion for the misery that was not in his life, but later I also paid tribute to his futile salvation. Did he know this was futile? Then he is a great saint. The so-called big love.
Struggling and tearing because of perseverance.
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