Plath

I'm reading The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath right now, and it's striking how much I feel like I'm reading her blog. Silly, I know. I think I might post a few of her journal entries here from time to time. Here are a couple I like:

--Today is the first of August. It is hot, steamy, and wet. It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: After a heavy rainfall, poems titled RAIN pour in from across the nation.

and

--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...

These are from July 1950-July 1953, toward the beginning, when Plath was in her late teens.