Sylvia Plath

The unabridged journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950-1962

Nica

Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.

With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start. A story, a picture, can renew sensation a little, but not enough, not enough. Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass.

I love people. Everybody. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection. Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me. My love's not impersonal yet not wholly subjective either. I would like to be everyone, a cripple, a dying man, a whore, and then come back to write about my thoughts, my emotions, as that person. But I am not omniscient. I have to live my life, and it is the only one I'll ever have. And you cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time...

"Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past..."

"We only begin to live when we conceive life as tragedy..."

With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start. A story, a picture, can renew sensation a little, but not enough, not enough. Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too. will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.

I seem to grow more acutely conscious of the swift passage of time as I grow older. When I was small, days and hours were long and spacious, and there was play and acres of leisure, and many children's books to read. I remember that as I was writing a poem on "Snow" when I was eight.  I said aloud, "I wish I could have the ability to write down the feelings I have now while I'm still little, because when I grow up I will know how to write, but I will have forgotten what being little feels like." And so it is that childlike sensitivity to new experiences and sensations seems to diminish in an inverse proportion to the growth of technical ability. As we become polished, so do we become hardened and guilty of accepting eating, sleeping, seeing and hearing too easily and lazily, without question. We become blunt and callous and blissfully passive as each day adds another drop to the stagnant well of our years.

God! All the quick futility of my days cascaded upon me, and I wanted to scream out in helpless fury at the hopeless inevitable going on of seconds, days, and years.

maia

I love people. Everybody. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection. Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me. My love's not impersonal yet not wholly subjective either. I would like to be everyone, a cripple, a dying man, a whore and then come back to write about my thoughts, my emotions, as that person. But I am not omniscient. 

"We only begin to live when we conceive life as tragedy..." 

I have to live my life, and it is the only one I'll ever have. And you cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time..

Charlote

-With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand...hopeless from the start. A story, a picture, can renew sensation a little, but not enough, not enough. Nothing is real except the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don't want to die.

I have to live my life, and it is the only one I'lIl ever have. And you cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time...

I may never be happy, but tonight I am content. 

Just finished this book after months of neglect also, she always knew how to address things in me (it feels like got called out) and I found solace in her writings and I felt empty afterwards.

eury

reading sylvia plath felt like words i’ve wanted to say but couldn’t express

Irem

Sırça Fanus'tan sonra hayatının daha da derinlemesine bir kesitini beklerken, bundan çok yazıma dair felç olarak tanımladığı dönemlerini anlattığı betimlemeleriyle, aslında ne kadar iyi bir yazar olduğunu gözlemlediğiniz, psikopatolojisine değil yazarlığına şahit olduğunuz bir kitap.

Mayra Melo

I decided I was going to read this for two reasons: Sylvia Plath intrigued me; and I need to write better journal entries.

It is sometimes hard to wrap your head around the fact that she was so young when she wrote those journals, and constantly I had to keep reminding myself. She seemed extremely mature for her age. I found myself only reading 20, 30 pages at a time, because her words were so full of introspection, I had to continually go back and reread passages and reflect, soul-search about my own life. It was exhausting (and worthwhile).

The first half of this book is absolutely remarkable. Especially for being just a journal. After she married, however, I think her tone changed. Her journaling was permanently altered. She made herself so little when compared to the “great Ted Hughes”. She refrained from “nagging” him, but he could nag her, because of his “superior seat”. Out of the pair he was always the better, bigger and smarter in her eyes. Her feminist words of before were somehow not put into action, and she became rather submissive and accepting too much of his behavior and betrayals. I understand her position and era of misogyny, but after being so entirely compelled by this woman’s words, I can’t lie here and say her submission didn’t bother me.

The introspection halted and her diaries started resembling a drone list of clipped everyday happenings and to-do lists. The student Sylvia was interesting, incredibly eloquent and contemplative; alive and iridescent, even at her worst depressions. The working, married Sylvia was washed out and colorless. But that’s when she wrote her most important masterpieces. So I suppose she just transplanted her magic from journaling to higher purposes.

This book was a long, tough read. Took me forever to finish. But it was more than worth it. Sylvia Plath was something else. Her words transcend journaling.

The unabridged journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950-1962

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