The goat.

There’s no way I could actually review this in a traditional sense. The goat is such a unique and complex subject. It has been an important part of human history and culture for thousands of years.

Goats are known for their hardiness and adaptability, able to survive in a variety of environments. They are also valued for their milk, meat, and wool.

However, there is so much more to the goat than just its practical uses. They have their own personalities and behaviors, which can be both endearing and frustrating.

Some goats are curious and playful, while others are more reserved. They can form strong bonds with their owners and other animals.

In conclusion, while it may be difficult to review the goat in a typical way, it is clear that they are an important and fascinating part of our world.

If I were a man, I could write a novel about this. I could vividly describe the emotions, the turmoil, the complex web of relationships. But being a woman, why must I only cry and freeze, cry and freeze?

It seems unfair that society often expects women to express their pain and frustration in such limited ways. We are supposed to be passive, to endure, rather than to take action and tell our stories.

Also, my edition had wonderful pictures of Sylvia and Ted Hughes. I showed them to a Plath-loving friend who quickly added, "yes they are cute but WE HATE TED." And that just about summarizes my whole reading experience.

The relationship between Sylvia and Ted was clearly a troubled one, and it's hard not to feel a sense of anger and disappointment towards Ted. But at the same time, we can't help but be drawn in by Sylvia's words, her poetry, her tragic life.

Reading about her makes us question our own lives, our own relationships, and the choices we make. It makes us realize that sometimes, even the most talented and beautiful people can struggle and suffer.

It was raining. The raindrops were falling gently from the sky, as if nature was crying. The sound of the rain hitting the ground created a soothing rhythm.

The world outside seemed to be covered in a gray blanket. The trees were swaying in the wind, their leaves getting wet. The streets were becoming puddles, reflecting the dull sky above.

I stood by the window, looking out at this rainy scene. It made me feel a bit melancholy. I thought about Sylvia Plath and her paranoias. Her words and her struggles came to my mind.

I remembered reading about her in an article on http://justanotherpoint.wordpress.com.... It was a fascinating piece that delved into her complex psyche.

The rain continued to pour, and I continued to gaze out, lost in thought.

I have a weakness for the diaries of the writers I admire or have an affection for — even if sometimes, when reading them, I feel a sense of guilt: can I really read these pages? Do I have the right to enter such an intimate world?

I chose to read this diary for the first reason I initially mentioned: I admired Sylvia and her writing — I wasn't simply affectionate towards her because I didn't know her true self. This diary made me get to know her and made me become affectionate towards her (not without pain), and obviously it also helped to increase the esteem I have for Sylvia Plath's writing: perhaps it is only in these pages that one can fully understand her talent and her sensitivity. I took more time than expected to read the 419 pages that make up this book, but sometimes I needed to devote myself to other readings: reading Sylvia write about certain topics was too painful for me. In any case, I believe that reading a diary is like reading a collection of poems: reading them all at once is not the same as reading them little by little, savoring them well and giving them the time to work their magic. I am therefore glad not to have rushed the reading, to have savored it and to have let it accompany many of my days. This diary is not only the diary of a soul, it is also a diary of writing: there are many ideas for stories, poems, many annotations and detailed descriptions of places and people... I would therefore recommend it not only to those who know and love Sylvia, but also to those who love to write. In fact, I recommend it to everyone: it's worth it.

I Diari di Sylvia Plath (Adelphi) is an intense and emotion-rich journey. I waited for the beauty of two weeks before writing this review, which is not really a review. I have always loved Sylvia Plath, perhaps the only poetess I felt close to me. Her life, so short, has always aroused great curiosity, but I postponed the reading of her diaries for years and didn't know that in those pages I would also find something of myself.

When I started reading, I thought I would read some snippets here and there, interspersed with other novels. But the truth is that when you start reading Sylvia Plath's diaries, you can't stop. Here the poetess is herself, no mask, no filter. From the accounts of outings with boys to the treatments related to electroshock, through marriage and the desire for a child. Unhappiness, dissatisfaction with the rejected poems, the hours spent in front of the blank pages, the good intentions gone up in smoke, the desperate search for a methodological rigor, Ted's success, sinusitis, instability.... the abyss. In this diary, we get to know Sylvia and we wish it would never end, never.

Read during the trip to Rome, I emerged only after a hundred pages or so. I did it to breathe, it seemed to me that I had been in apnea for so long... Sylvia in these pages discovers Europe, we discover our love for her.

I Diari di Sylvia Plath begin in 1950. She has just embarked on a course of studies at Smith College and will attempt suicide for the first time. After being hospitalized, she will be diagnosed with bipolar disorder that will accompany her for the rest of her life. Five years later, she will graduate and move to Cambridge College, where she will meet the famous Ted Hughes who will become her husband.

God, I have never been so close to suicide as now, while the sleepless blood courses dizzily through my veins, the heavy gray area of rain and here the damned masons on the other side of the street are pounding on the roof with pickaxes and axes and scalpels in the acrid infernal stench of tar. This morning I crept back under the covers again, to beg for a little sleep, to escape from action, from responsibility, and to take refuge in the intimate and malodorous penumbra. It didn't help.

Sylvia has a sharp tongue, at times fierce, towards herself and others. Always on the alert, she calls her own mind "sick" and knows that from the poisoned heart the poison will come out, strike her, leaving her more vulnerable than before. It's only a matter of time and the crises will return, tormenting her. Going to the psychiatrist is almost a relief because Sylvia needs a father (hers died when she was a child) and a mother (a key figure throughout the Diary responsible - according to Sylvia - for all the poetess's ills). A reference point: "I was dead and I was resuscitated."

The love for poetry is almost an obsession. Sylvia spends her days with a magnifying glass pointed at herself and nourishes doubts, transforming them into paranoia, continuing to question herself. Her mind is never still, never.

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It is not bad at all. In fact, it is extremely interesting to observe the thoughts of someone like Sylvia. Her idiosyncrasies, the way she saw the world, and her own work all offer a fascinating glimpse into her inner self. We can learn a great deal from understanding her perspective.

Her unique way of looking at things might inspire us to think differently and approach our own work and lives with a new mindset. By observing her manías, we can gain insights into the things that truly mattered to her and how she pursued them with passion.

Overall, taking the time to observe and understand someone like Sylvia can be a rewarding experience that enriches our own understanding of the world and ourselves.

I have lied. I haven't finished it (not yet). But I suffer from that quite common disorder where I have to close all my readings of the year by December 31st.

It's a magnificent book, anyway.

I find myself constantly pressured by this self-imposed deadline. It's as if there's an invisible force pushing me to complete all my literary pursuits within the given time frame.

This particular book has been a joy to read so far. The story is captivating, the characters are well-developed, and the writing style is engaging.

However, due to my disorder, I feel a sense of urgency to finish it before the end of the year.

I hope I can manage to do so and fully appreciate this wonderful piece of literature.

I have never loved diaries, the lives of others collected in closed pages. What I have never loved is reading them. Writing them, however, always. After all, what can be interesting? And what does interesting mean, then? What resembles us or what we would like to resemble us?

Then one day one also gets tired of writing, when one no longer finds words even for one's daily life lived as the center of an imaginary universe. It is at that point that the lives of others begin to serve, because your world finds a little sense in a void that you do not define.

If life is in itself the experience of being, then so is the knowledge of the life of others. And that of Sylvia Plath, the very act of reading her external and internal diary, is indeed in every respect. From 1950 to 1963: a constellation of fragmented and permanent identities, never so changeable; girl and writer, wife and still writer, wife and mother and, always, writer. In love and rejecting, isolated and isolating. Ambitious and deliberately failing. Angry, envious, depressed in every respect. Above all, the imprint of an abandoned legacy.

But writing, in the avalanche of her thoughts and words, is the support, the only thing that remains: like a perpetual hunger after millions of bites without ever a true satisfaction. Desire for art and deep passion, and yet it is only the mask of an act aimed at saying oneself someone in a life that ignores.

Plath did not love: she painted, from these lives of others. From the women who became mothers without feeling something taken away, from the writing companions published without that amount of self-awareness that blocks and thwarts. From Ted Hughes, from his mastery as a husband and writer, from his superiority perceived every day as security and at the same time as an overwhelming weight. From the search for an identity that struggles, limps, does not find peace.

If life is the experience of being, one wonders how much it could have been for Plath, in the consciousness of her end. And how much the existence of others has meant?

Certainly, more than what her own has ever meant, for herself.

**"Incomplete Diaries"**

Reading part of Plath's diaries has been an intense experience. However, my rating is low due to the lack of transparency on the part of the publisher.

On the back cover, it is written: "This volume collects part of the diaries that Plath wrote between 1950 and 1962." But this is not true. The diaries actually end in 1959, and the few and only subsequent writings (a total of about ten pages) are not part of her true diary. They are only writing exercises that Plath did to practice the art of writing in anticipation of her other poems or novels. These exercises add nothing to Plath's thoughts, nothing relevant to her life and her state of mind. The personal writings of her last 3 years of life (indispensable for understanding the extent of her depression) are not there.

This omission is a significant flaw. It leaves the reader with an incomplete picture of Plath's life and her inner world. We are deprived of the opportunity to fully understand the development of her depression and the factors that may have contributed to it. The publisher should have been more honest and forthcoming about the contents of the book.

In the years, Sylvia has documented her inner life, between emotional outbursts and the need to touch reality with her own hands. Writing is for her a form of therapy, but above all of self-assertion: "I want to write because I feel the need to excel in one of the means of interpreting and expressing life." Writing is the central element of her life, in which she must believe, and in which she continues to believe, despite the fear of failure that paralyzes her, relegating her to a purely mental life, to a "whim of fairy tales." We read her compassionately, empathize with her fears which, after all, are the same as anyone who lives believing in their own dream.

The collection suffers from the void of some temporal leaps and ends with work notes, mute as far as the author's state of mind is concerned, who will take her own life in February 1963. We thus remain in the dark about the last crises, the pain that led her to suicide, precisely at the moment when she was most productive for herself. Writing did not save her, but it will remain a comfort for her readers forever.

Putting this aside for now.

It is truly very interesting, and I'm glad that some random Amazon reviewer steered me here away from The Bell Jar.

The book contains lots of vividly cyclical thoughts and creepalicious animal imagery.

I can imagine spending many hours crying at her therapist's.

So glad I missed the fifties.

-

PREVIOUSLY:

This is a very different kind of women's TRUTH book than Lean In.

She just very lustily described a rock:

\\n  \\"Lying on my stomach on the flat warm rock, I let my arm hang over the side, and my hand caressed the rounded contours of the sun-hot stone, and felt the smooth undulations of it. Such a heat the rock had, such a rugged and comfortable warmth, that I felt it could be a human body. Burning through the material of my bathing suit, the great heat radiated through my body, and my breasts ached against the hard flat stone... The sun seeped into every pore, satiating every querulous fiber of me into a great glowing golden peace. Stretching out on the rock, body taut, then relaxed, on the altar, I felt that I was being raped deliciously by the sun, filled full of heat from the impersonal and colossal god of nature. Warm and perverse was the body of my love under me, and the feeling of his carved flesh was like no other—not soft, not malleable, not wet with sweat, but dry, hard, smooth, clean and pure. High, bone-white, I had been washed by the sea... An orgiastic sacrifice on the altar of rock and sun, and I arose shining from the centuries of love, clean and satiated from the consuming fire of his casual timeless desire.\\"\\n

The rock, unlike Ted Hughes, was unable to get inconveniently explicit passages redacted from the published journals.

This description of the rock is truly remarkable. It shows the author's unique perspective and her ability to bring inanimate objects to life in a very sensual and vivid way.

The way she describes the heat of the rock and how it affects her body is both powerful and evocative.

It makes the reader feel as if they are right there with her, experiencing the same sensations.

This kind of writing is what makes this book stand out and makes it a must-read for anyone interested in women's literature or unique literary perspectives.

I had the impression of reading two different books.

The first part was engaging, intense, moving, and sensational. Literally, I didn't want to stop reading.

Then everything became repetitive. I realized that I also felt anxiety while reading the second part of the diaries. The drama is palpable and breathable, and I have also experienced the anguish felt by the author.

It was a difficult and demanding reading, and I only recommend it to those who want to immerse themselves in this type of reading.

Perhaps the author intended to create a contrast between the two parts to highlight certain themes or emotions. However, for me, the repetitiveness in the second part detracted from the overall impact of the work.

Despite this, I still appreciate the author's courage in sharing her personal experiences and emotions so openly. It takes a lot of strength and vulnerability to do so.

Overall, it was an interesting reading experience, but not one that I would necessarily recommend to everyone.