cheyenneisreading's review against another edition
4.0
A wonderful journal that any Sylvia fan should read. It is a deep shame that Ted burnt her final diaries.
izzykat111's review against another edition
so much rambling about nothing interesting. so boring.
edlin314's review against another edition
dark
reflective
4.5
I’m not sure giving this a rating is entirely ethical. I have a morbid curiosity about what Ted Hughes removed from these, well we can have a pretty good guess what it was. Nevertheless, the writing was beautiful and a bit too relatable. I feel like I know her even though I probably don’t.
mrspenningalovesbooks's review against another edition
5.0
It feels strange to rate someone’s journal writing, but Plath’s ability to write so poignantly and beautifully in her private journals speaks to her talent as a writer! She varies her structure a lot, sometimes objectively describing her setting, other times analyzing the people
Around her, and often, addressing her mental health struggles. She writes to herself, her best advocate and voice against the demons she describes. My favorite part of reading this copy is it’s used, and contains the annotations by a brilliant reader who added to the experience with her connections and thoughts. We often zoomed in on the same points.
“I must stop identifying with the seasons, because this English winter will be the death of me.”
“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. “
“For All my despair, for all of my ideals, for all that— I love life. But it’s hard, and I have so much— so very much to learn.”
Around her, and often, addressing her mental health struggles. She writes to herself, her best advocate and voice against the demons she describes. My favorite part of reading this copy is it’s used, and contains the annotations by a brilliant reader who added to the experience with her connections and thoughts. We often zoomed in on the same points.
“I must stop identifying with the seasons, because this English winter will be the death of me.”
“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. “
“For All my despair, for all of my ideals, for all that— I love life. But it’s hard, and I have so much— so very much to learn.”
bibliotequeish's review against another edition
4.0
I found myself wondering what Sylvia was thinking, or who she was thinking about when she wrote these words.
For example who is "homely, nondescript" Linda, who Sylvia feels can write better than she could ever dream. Who was this writer who brought out such a lack of confidence in one of the most beautiful writers?
"So you got rid of your astonishment that someone could write so much more dynamically than you. "
You could see the questions brewing, whats the point in the daily grind, perhaps knowing what we know about Sylvia Plath, questioning the purpose in life.
"I got up and went about the tedious business of undressing, of putting white cloth shapes in neat piles, of undoing filmy brown nylon, of letting stiff white net slip to the floor, of running water and putting soap on wash-cloth on face and arms and neck. The cat scratched claws on the chair. I patted the fur, holding the warm animal against my bare breast, where it purred for a little. Then bed, and again the luxury of dark ... To regret, regret, and know that the next move will be to arise, to walk to the toilet, one foot after another, to sit on the seat, sleepily, releasing the bright yellow stream of urine, yawning, and undoing rags from brown hair and curls. To get up, brush teeth, wash face, and begin again, in the merciless daylight, all the rituals of dressing that our culture subscribes to"
Unfortunately I read these words knowing the struggle the writer was facing, I read every prose with a skeptical eye. Asking myself if this was a sign, or a cry for help. I wish I could have read this book blindly, not knowing the tragic end of Sylvia Plaths life.
"I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralyzed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness. I never thought, I never wrote, I never suffered. I want to kill myself, to escape from responsibility, to crawl back abjectly into the womb. I do not know who I am, where I am going "
Beautiful book, Sylvia Plath was poetry.
For example who is "homely, nondescript" Linda, who Sylvia feels can write better than she could ever dream. Who was this writer who brought out such a lack of confidence in one of the most beautiful writers?
"So you got rid of your astonishment that someone could write so much more dynamically than you. "
You could see the questions brewing, whats the point in the daily grind, perhaps knowing what we know about Sylvia Plath, questioning the purpose in life.
"I got up and went about the tedious business of undressing, of putting white cloth shapes in neat piles, of undoing filmy brown nylon, of letting stiff white net slip to the floor, of running water and putting soap on wash-cloth on face and arms and neck. The cat scratched claws on the chair. I patted the fur, holding the warm animal against my bare breast, where it purred for a little. Then bed, and again the luxury of dark ... To regret, regret, and know that the next move will be to arise, to walk to the toilet, one foot after another, to sit on the seat, sleepily, releasing the bright yellow stream of urine, yawning, and undoing rags from brown hair and curls. To get up, brush teeth, wash face, and begin again, in the merciless daylight, all the rituals of dressing that our culture subscribes to"
Unfortunately I read these words knowing the struggle the writer was facing, I read every prose with a skeptical eye. Asking myself if this was a sign, or a cry for help. I wish I could have read this book blindly, not knowing the tragic end of Sylvia Plaths life.
"I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralyzed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness. I never thought, I never wrote, I never suffered. I want to kill myself, to escape from responsibility, to crawl back abjectly into the womb. I do not know who I am, where I am going "
Beautiful book, Sylvia Plath was poetry.
h3ll0k8ie's review against another edition
4.75
on the one hand, invasive, dredging up a sense of voyeurism to read so intimate a work without its author’s consent, but on the other, an awfully interesting insight into the life, musings, and writing process of plath.
alicesvalentine's review against another edition
5.0
i can’t really judge it as i would a novel with a plot, of course, but she’s brilliant. obviously