Taut, mineral Chenin with a sheen of honey that never quite turns sweet. It has the same brittle brightness as Esther's summer, polished on the surface and tense underneath.
Crisp, chalky and finely beaded, it suits the magazine-internship glamour of Esther's New York summer. All poise on the surface, with a cool edge underneath.
A bright New York summer that curdles into something closed-in and suffocating. Plath writes despair with such cool precision that the prose itself feels like cold glass.
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