I don't believe in God as a kind father in the sky. I don't believe that the meek will inherit the earth. The meek are often ignored and trampled. They decompose in the bloody soil of war, of business, of art, and they rot into the warm ground under the spring rains.
An unabridged collection of Sylvia Plath's personal journals. Even though it has more than 700 pages and weighs 6 pounds, this book still has some gaps of missing time. The reasons for the missing time are various. Her journaling was inconsistent. After a failed suicide attempt in 1953, she was hospitalized, which might have affected her journaling. Ted Hughes "lost" at least one journal, and he also burned her final journal. The editors have done their best to fill the holes with letters (when available), journal "fragments," footnotes, and a rather extensive appendix. However, it would be beneficial for the reader to have some background knowledge about Plath's life history before reading this thick book.
I'm deeply impressed by the extent of Sylvia's crippling codependency with Hughes. Once the handsome and talented T.H. enters her life, there is a distinct change in the tone of her writing. Her focus shifts from bettering herself as a poet and a writer to managing and furthering Ted's career. I'm not saying that he would have failed without her, but even though Plath rarely criticizes his character, he still seems like a complete jerk.