Sylvia's journals. It was a journey to read this dome. I most of all enjoyed the centre of the book which involves writing – writing as an act, writing as living, writing as being published, and the despair interlinked with these acts. Always this urge veering into despair, this pushing of oneself, a firmness always so near to imploding into disappointment – it felt intimate to read her journals and almost wrong because of this intimacy and closeness. A journal is always so personal and vulnerable. So much of the journal occupies waiting: to become the great poet while wondering is she’ll ever “make it”. Working hard and pushing herself further into bettering her writing in the face of rejections. And yet she wonders to herself that even great writers like Virginia Woolf were rejected by journals and it calms her. There is also a reminder in the center parts of her journals: be alert! A discipline. It edged its way into my gaze as well.

How different was the end of her journals where these words of discipline became other words. I wonder what she was experiencing, regarding her writing, towards her final year(s). Her life became her children, her whole life, but who can one easily forgo the previous obsession amidst writing? Yet she was writing even then. She was writing some of her best work. There is a visceral and alive episode about her experience giving birth to her son. There was so much trivial socialising (she admits that they are trivialisations) and so many descriptions and observations of people. On this side of her writing are we, the readers. The author cannot know the signifiant empowerment and voice she has bestowed to many of us. She deserved, in her brief life, so much more -- but I am grateful for her offerings, these words, and more.

"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've been trying to read this book over a year. at last i gave up at 18% in. i love sylvia and i relate to her. but i can't read a journal at all.

you are missed sylvia. gone but never forgotten.

I won't rate this since it's something so private and probably not meant for anybody to read it. But, I liked it very much and while reading it I felt emotions which can't be described with ordinary words.

This book gives us an insight into her writing style and what kept her imagination and motivation in this kind of art. Her inner life was rich and sometimes, because of that, she felt alone and misunderstood.

She described her struggles in writing so vividly that any artist could really learn from her experiences.

Also, I'm devastated that two of her notebooks were lost or destroyed on purpose. Somehow I think that those two notebooks would enlight more things surrounding her life.

It's a curious feeling – to appreciate the chance to love and cherish Plath's writing while feeling so terribly bitter that I find it at all relatable.

I'm discovering through her journals that we took the same classes, maybe even studied in the same rooms and walked the same streets. I'm approaching the age Plath was when she died. I wonder how much in common we will have in the future.

I definitely haven't achieved anything even close to her accomplishments.