Writing is a religious rite: it is an order, a reform, a re-education to re-love others and the world as they are and as they could be. A creation that does not vanish like a day at the typewriter or in the classroom. Writing remains: it goes alone in the world. Everyone reads it, reacts to it as one reacts to a person, a philosophy, a religion, a flower: it may like it or not. It may help them or not. Writing tests emotions to give intensity to life: offer more, investigate, ask, look, learn and model: obtain more: show answers, color and form, knowledge. At the beginning, it is a gratuitous act. If it makes you earn money, so much the better. At the beginning, you don't do it for money. It's not for money that you sit at the typewriter. It's not that you wouldn't like it. It's so nice when a job pays you to eat. With writing, one never knows. How to live in insecurity? And, even worse, with the risk of sometimes failing or losing faith in writing itself? How to live with all this?
The worst thing, worse than all, would be to live without writing. And then, how to live with the lesser evils and reduce them even more?

I love, I love, I LOVE Sylvia Plath. Her writing, her commitment to always improving, the way she observes the world and recre

Muito mais íntimos que a obra "the bell jar", estas memórias de Plath são extremamente úteis para desvendar a dor (se é que a dor se pode desvendar!). Ela estava consumida pela mágoa e pelas raízes profundas que a dor fez crescer. Esta escrita da autora revela a poetisa quando ela oscilava entre a luz e a sombra. É como se pudéssemos ver diretamente sua alma, seus sentimentos mais profundos. Para mim, é uma das mais originais do nosso tempo. É como um testemunho vivo da sua jornada interior. E não é apenas uma curiosidade, mas um bom complemento à obra de Plath. Ajuda a completar a imagem que temos da autora, mostrando-lhe os aspectos menos conhecidos, mas tão importantes. É uma leitura fascinante e reveladora.

I firmly believe that the initial portion of the book was exceptionally more captivating.

Conversely, the remainder seemed to be inundated with futile details and episodes that failed to hold my attention.

I had anticipated a more in-depth exploration of her emotions, her experience of permanence within the mental hospital, and her attempted suicide.

Nonetheless, despite these shortcomings, the book still managed to assist me in understanding even more profoundly such a restless and delicate soul.

It provided glimpses into the inner turmoil and struggles that she endured, which, in turn, offered valuable insights into the human psyche.

Although it may not have met all of my expectations, it still had its merits and contributed to my overall perception and appreciation of the subject matter.

Why I am the meaning that people give to me as being, and I would be nothing if there were no others.

Another of those readings that I will always keep in my heart. Literature in general fascinates me, but that classical, Victorian, modernist, even more so, and I never impose any limit on myself. I never alienate myself. Yet, on the plane of my readings, there are still several authors who are still isolated from my personal circle. Even if admitting it, writing it, is not exactly prudent, dignified, writers or authors who aggravate me the most, still distant and unknown. It would not be dignified to write all this because they are authors who are close to my being and give the impression of knowing exactly what to say or communicate to my soul, putting into question the reasons why our getting to know each other - for some already happened, for others not yet - was so late: my thirst for knowledge is always more pressing, irrevocable, attractive, magnetic endowed with a natural, spontaneous elegance, increased so immeasurably and so quickly that it already has its own form, its own importance, and like certain visits in certain very beautiful places, I do not need time or words to weave its praises (the same ones with which I have spoken and overspoken of authors like Haruki Murakami or Paul Auster or Philip Roth. They are figures who once were anonymous, almost invisible, who adopted rhetoric as an almost accidental, true form, because they desired to put something in order inside them. In the end, deliberately, so that the world could see their soul naked. In reality, Sylvia Plath was no less emancipated than these authors that I have cited, and perhaps she never was given that our knowledge took place this year, after years and years of strong and incomprehensible longings. Emancipated she was then, but not as she would have wanted to be. Because completely alone, without support, without confidants, without a true homeland. Independent, but up to a certain point. Ambitious? Absolutely, but sensitive, fragile, misunderstood, and irremediably attracted to writing, to those words that would conceive heat, arouse love, assonances and dissonances among genres, aspirations, ideals, through which she could reach happiness. Interpret the grotesque aspect of life from which we all would like to flee.

Sylvia Plath was more ambitious than those female writers that I have had the opportunity to know, than all those independent feminists put together, with a discreet group of men attracted to her to whom she turned with modesty and a little fear. But with what right did they assert themselves over her considering her a recidivist, I cannot say. Plath was aware of what she aspired to, of ideas, ambitions, courage, she had invective in abundance, but the due and correct respect that should have occupied a particular place in her life was the most important aspect. I have asked myself, how did the << friends >>, the relatives, who, in general, stood beside her, not see that she was a woman afraid of life, of love, even of God? Didn't they see how she was irremediably inconsolable, fragile, introverted, but with a simple and romantic soul? Well, surely the love for writing, literature, for Woolf or Philip Roth had a certain charm for that circle of collegiate virtuosos who procured her a certain prestige. But it was her relationship with writing itself, her desire to pour irremediably, almost furiously, black on white, her vivid impressions, that strongly struck me. As a writer, poet, she was really exceptional. She who repeatedly questioned the determined stubbornness of not having made the best use of her abilities or possibilities, with the constant fear of not having done enough. She who was part of an indissoluble whole, with twisted tensions, irrational loves, sordid loyalties, condemned to be circumscribed in a sphere of action, thought and feeling rigidly consolidated in her ineluctable femininity. Writing has evaporated every fear, has contrasted the real world, has dissipated every doubt, perplexity, inducing her to wander like a specter in a desolate, not very comfortable, land, without anyone, in silence, and drastically involved. And how not to be fascinated, seduced by all this? This, in certain situations, could be considered as a distorted interpretation of the soul, almost a mystical vision of what darkens and obscures our senses. But Plath made them classifiable, endowed with "life" in a backward hole like the one in which she was forced to live, of which I challenge anyone it would be impossible not to be involved. Why the devil didn't she find the strength to rise again, being reborn from her own ashes? That being weak and fragile was part of her temperament, that certain situations did not suit me, should not cause scandal.

There was, however, in particular, a bond between us that allowed me to understand her immediately. Full of animosity, in tune with my courageous, enterprising but introverted being, who still believes that I have not read enough to know life. Not having fully lived those independent or revolutionary literary or artistic ideas, which are quite different from mine but that concretize my idea of the past. Intellectually still distant from what I aspire to, but always happy to note how also Plath has projected her prophetic aura on me. At the end of the reading, with the strong desire to read more of her, << court her >> as it should be, to clearly and fully establish the essential reasons why it is necessary not to quench this our knowledge. With pages of diary that have amazed me, enchanted me, maneuvered and interested me invariably in the past.

Qui sta l'inganno della vita: nell'idea che uno possa invecchiare ed essere felice mantenendo una data situazione o dopo aver ottenuto certi risultati. This is a profound thought. Consider the case of Virginia Woolf. Why did she commit suicide? And Sara Teasdale and all those other extraordinary women? They seemed to have achieved so much, yet still found themselves in a state of despair.

Perhaps it is because they realized that the pursuit of a particular situation or result does not necessarily lead to true happiness. Maybe they had set their sights too high, or expected too much from life. If only they knew how high to aim, what to ask of life! As Sylvia Plath wrote in her diaries, this is the great deception of life. We are constantly striving for something more, believing that it will bring us the happiness we seek. But in the end, it may all be an illusion.

We need to learn to find contentment in the present moment, to appreciate what we have, and to let go of our unrealistic expectations. Only then can we hope to find true happiness and peace in this life.

Please provide the article that needs to be rewritten and expanded so that I can help you.

This book has finished for me.

It has been a journey filled with various emotions and experiences. As I turned the last page, a sense of accomplishment washed over me.

The story within these pages had captivated my attention from the very beginning. The characters came to life, and I found myself invested in their fates.

I will remember this book for a long time. It has left an impression on me, and perhaps it will inspire me in some way.

Now that it's over, I look forward to picking up another book and embarking on a new adventure.

Reading is truly a wonderful escape, and I can't wait to see where my next literary journey will take me.

If I were to compose a diary of my life, I would write it exactly like this. I have truly become attached to this book, to Sylvia and to her words.

Every page seems to hold a piece of her soul, and as I turn them, I feel as if I am getting to know her on a deeper level.

The way she describes her experiences, her emotions, it's all so vivid and real. It's as if I am right there with her, sharing in her joys and sorrows.

This diary has become a source of inspiration for me. It makes me want to be more open and honest about my own life, to document my thoughts and feelings in a similar way.

I can't wait to see where this journey takes me, and I know that this book will always hold a special place in my heart.

Best 2020 Read, I Guess?

In 2020, the world was filled with various challenges and uncertainties. Amidst all that, finding a good book to read became a source of solace and escape for many. I, too, embarked on a literary journey throughout the year, exploring different genres and authors.

Some of the books I read were thought-provoking, making me reflect on my own life and the world around me. Others were simply entertaining, allowing me to lose myself in their fictional worlds and forget about the chaos for a while. But among all the books I read, there was one that stood out as my best 2020 read.

I won't reveal the title just yet, as I want you to discover it for yourself. But I can tell you that it was a book that had a profound impact on me, one that I will remember for a long time to come. It was a story that touched my heart, made me laugh, and even brought a tear to my eye at times.

So, if you're looking for a great book to read in 2020 or beyond, I highly recommend giving this one a try. You might just find that it becomes your best read of the year too.

A beautiful book, full of reflections and intrinsic poetry. However, unfortunately, the daily model fails to capture my attention.

For those few pages that I have read, though, I have shared many of Plath's states of mind. And the ability that Plath has to make me feel less alone, no one else has.

The book seems to have a certain charm that draws you in, despite the initial lack of interest in the diary format. It's as if Plath's words have a power of their own, reaching out and touching the reader on a deep emotional level.

Perhaps as I continue to read, I will discover more of the hidden gems within these pages and come to appreciate the book even more fully.

Until then, I will hold onto the feelings that Plath has evoked in me and look forward to seeing where this literary journey takes me.

What a wonder! The indispensable and magnificent Sylvia, so ahead of her times, so holistic. Impeccable even when she describes the pleasure felt in undressing xD

She is truly a remarkable figure, with her unique perspective and ability to express herself so vividly. Her words seem to come alive on the page, painting a picture that is both beautiful and engaging.

Whether she is writing about love, nature, or the human experience, Sylvia has a way of making us see things in a new light. She challenges our assumptions and makes us think deeply about the world around us.

Her work is not only a joy to read but also a source of inspiration. It reminds us that there is always more to discover and explore, and that the beauty of life lies in the details.

In conclusion, Sylvia is a literary genius, and her words will continue to touch the hearts and minds of readers for generations to come.

I have a profound feeling that I am deeply connected to her.

There is an unwavering determination within me to obtain the Unabridged version. I long to purchase it, tightly hold it against my chest, and walk around with my head slightly bowed, stealing side glances at the passers-by.

As if they are the ones who are crazy.

I have embarked on an amazing journey with Plath. At one moment, I truly believed that I was reading my own thoughts.

Just expressed in a more eloquent way.

"-- mutta äsken tartuin Virginia Woolfin siunattuun päiväkirjaan, -- selvitäkseen masennuksesta kun Harper's on palauttanut hänen tekstinsä (toden totta! - vaikea uskoa että suuruudetkin hylätään!) hän siivoaa keittiön. Minusta tuntuu että elämäni on jollain tavoin kytketty häneen. -- Minusta tuntui että jäljittelin hänen itsemurhaansakin tuona mustana kesänä 1953. Minä en vain pystynyt hukkumaan. Olen varmasti aina yliherkkä, hiukan vainoharhainen. --

One simply has to write. This week, I started to loathe the fact that I haven't written anything in a while. The novel has grown in my thoughts to such enormous proportions that I found myself in a state of panic.