Zelda Fitzgerald burning her dresses in the bathtub.
Sylvia Plath burning her manuscript, a revenge fantasy.
Ingeborg Bachmann burning in her bed.
Clarice Lispector singed by a cigarette.
Edna St. Vincent Millay burning the candle at both ends.
Jean Rhys burned her own manuscripts.
Vivienne Eliot's notebooks went up in a garage fire.
Zelda burned alive while at the institution, her only remains a single charred ballet slipper.
All that remains.
The self-immolating woman.
Jean Rhys' and Charlotte Bronte's Bertha Mason, tumbling out of Rochester House, a burning braid (in Bronte's version an act of madness, in Rhys' an act of righteous revenge.)
Colette Peignot's (Laure) delight at a burning church.
Cassandra runs into the house being set on fire.
Esther Greenwood on the Rosenbergs: I couldn't help wondering what it would be like, being burned alive, all along your nerves.
(I have videoed myself reading from Jelinek along with a spoken blog about Laure and nakedness and frivolity, I will post on Monday)