Plathin suhtautumisessa kirjoittamiseen intohimoon sotkeutuu kunnianhimo, ripustautuminen ja toisille osoittaminen.

Her entire book revolves largely around the self-reflection related to writing, which was alarmingly identificatory.

It is probably a rather indulgent reading experience for anyone who has ambitions related to creation or measuring one's own worth - how they poison the process.

Emt, it's strange how much I identify with Plath, but yet I don't really like her as a person... It's funny to state this after having read her diaries lol.

Maybe it's because her intense focus on herself and her writing sometimes comes across as self-absorbed.

However, I can't deny the power and beauty of her words.

Her descriptions of the writing process and the emotions that come with it are both relatable and thought-provoking.

Despite my mixed feelings about her as a person, I still find her work to be a valuable exploration of the creative mind.

Yeahhhh, I don't even really have the words to explain how much of an impact this has had on me.

It's truly indescribable. All I can say is that I cried at almost every page because I feel her writing so deeply.

Her words seem to touch a part of my soul that I didn't even know existed. I don't think I'll ever connect to anyone the way I do with her.

It's like she has this special ability to put into words the emotions and experiences that I've always felt but could never express. (Don't worry, I do have a therapist.)

This connection I have with her writing has been both a source of comfort and a catalyst for self-reflection. It's made me realize just how much I have in common with her, and how much her words can resonate with me on such a profound level.

I'm so grateful to have discovered her work and to have been able to experience this connection. It's something that I'll cherish for a long time to come.

"Mad call I it, for to define true madness,/

What is't but to be nothing else but mad?/

But let that go." (Hamlet 2.2 92–99)

Sylvia Plath is yet another poignant example of how mental anguish often shadows staggering genius. In today's society, doctors would likely inundate her with a plethora of medications such as antidepressants, mood stabilizers, lithium, antipsychotics, and more. This medical approach, while perhaps well-intentioned, often seems to serve the interests of making the rich richer. It dulls the passionate minds of those who truly need someone to listen, to empathize, rather than simply prescribe and judge.

I have never read anyone with a more intense and passionate drive to show the world their true voice. Plath seemed to believe that if she learned new languages, mastered shorthand, wrote more novels and poetry, earned a doctorate, started a family, and gained true acceptance from her mother, life would once again become bright and worth living. Many people claim that her poetry is her finest work, with Ariel being her crowning achievement. However, to me, her diaries are like windows into her soul, revealing some of the most introspectively brilliant writing I have ever encountered.

Yet, I find myself wondering...what gives me, or anyone for that matter, the right to rummage through this woman's deepest demons, dreams, and passions? Instead of sensationalizing tragedy out of mere curiosity, we have a responsibility as human beings to learn from people like Plath. We should pause and reflect on the concept of mental illness, and consider how often we label others as crazy, nuts, hysterical, or disturbed.

Doesn't such labeling exacerbate self-doubt, ultimately leading to an ever-growing fear of having to please everyone but oneself? We dread conformity, yet often succumb to it at our own peril. Rather than blindly diving into the soul-crushing world that we ignorantly call reality, perhaps we should take a cue from this mythologized literary figure. We should search within ourselves with a passionate fervor equal to that of Sylvia Plath, questioning the status quo with surgical precision, while not allowing society to convince us that there is something inherently wrong with us. On the contrary, the so-called "mad" understand that being unbalanced in this "civilized" world is a logical response to the macabre circus that we have made of the planet. We measure everything but understand nothing. Time becomes the antithesis of Truth:

"I could smash the measured clicking sound that haunts me—draining away life, and dreams, and idle reveries. Hard, sharp, ticks. I hate them. Measuring thought, infinite space, by cogs and wheels. Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals…I love life. But it is hard and I have so much—so very much to learn—“(The Journals of Sylvia Plath 25)

I have been reading this 433-page book for over a month. I have interrupted it with ten other books and still haven't finished it. This way of reading doesn't suit me. I am systematic: I start a book and finish it. I don't like to abandon them, and even less do I like to read several at the same time, but this time I did so.

I would never have been able to read Sylvia Plath's Journals continuously, regularly, systematically. Too much pain, too much real pain. Because here we are not talking about sick, delirious, hallucinated fantasies. We are talking about a life, of sensibility and mind. Of a woman who never left herself in peace, who always pushed beyond her own limits, beyond tiredness and suffering.

Every passage needs to be metabolized. Every pathological mood swing requires the reader to be aware of the short or long period that separates the two episodes, the two extremes.

The pitiless and shameless sincerity with which Sylvia reveals her own desperation makes me feel a great admiration for this woman who prayed without shame.

The obsession with writing, the urgent goals she set for herself. She never stopped, she lived with anguish every moment of crisis, fighting to overcome it. Writing represented salvation.

I don't like that some pieces are missing, and by chance those of the most difficult periods. But I'm afraid that to read them I would have needed some particular emotional superpower.

My world is falling apart, crumbling.

The center can no longer hold. There is no unifying force, only bare fear and the instinct of self-preservation.

I am afraid. I have no substance, I am empty.

Behind my eyes, I feel a petrified, inert cave, an infernal abyss, a nothingness that mimics.

It is as if all the meaning and purpose have drained away, leaving only a shell of a being.

The chaos and uncertainty that surround me are suffocating, making it difficult to breathe.

I long for something, anything, to give me stability and a sense of direction.

But in this desolate landscape, there seems to be no hope, no light at the end of the tunnel.

I am adrift, lost in a sea of my own fears and insecurities.

"The most terrifying realization is that so many millions in the world would like to be in my place."


I'm truly not certain if one can accurately rate someone's journals. After all, the very essence of journals is to pen down one's own thoughts freely. When we rate something like that, it seems as if we are suggesting that their thoughts are of lesser importance compared to our own. It's like invading someone's personal life.


On that particular note, I clearly rated this a 5. I can't claim that I adored every single aspect of it. However, simultaneously, I do wish that I had opted for the unabridged version so that I could have delved deeper and read more. At the end of the day, it provided me with valuable insights into an author whom I already held in high regard due to her remarkable genius and yet, also her flaws.


The greatest advantage for me in reading this was truly witnessing the vast amount of herself that she poured into her writings. It's one thing to be aware that you are reading confessional poetry or a semi-autobiographical novel, but it's an entirely different experience to observe so much of that playing out in her actual journals. It elevated my respect for what she accomplished to an entirely new level. I am well aware that I could never have the courage to expose myself to the world in the way that she did.

Now I smile at the thought that all of us like to believe that we are important enough to need a psychiatrist. It's a rather interesting phenomenon. We often have this perception of ourselves as being so significant that we think our mental states require the expertise of a professional. Maybe it's because in today's complex and fast-paced world, we face numerous challenges and pressures that can take a toll on our minds. Or perhaps it's our innate desire to be understood and have someone to confide in. Whatever the reason, the idea of needing a psychiatrist has become somewhat of a common belief. However, it's also important to note that not everyone truly requires the services of a psychiatrist. There are other ways to deal with our mental health issues, such as talking to friends and family, engaging in hobbies, or seeking support from other professionals like counselors or therapists.

La donna è a perfezione.

Il suo morto

Corpo ha il sorriso del compimento,

un' illusione di greca necessità

scorre lungo i drappeggi della sua toga,

i suoi nudi

piedi sembran dire:

abbiamo tanto camminato, è finita.

Si sono rannicchiati i morti infanti ciascuno

come un bianco serpente a una delle due piccole

tazze del latte, ora vuote.

Lei li ha riavvolti

Dentro il suo corpo come petali

di una rosa richiusa quando il giardino

s'intorpidisce e sanguinano odori

dalle dolci, profonde gole del fiore della notte.

Niente di cui rattristarsi ha la luna

che guarda dal suo cappuccio d'osso.

A certe cose è ormai abituata.

Crepitano, si tendono le sue macchie nere.

Nell'ultimo mese sono andata spesso a letto pensando di essere la reincarnazione di Sylvia Plath. Questo pensiero è francamente spaventoso. Capita mai di leggersi all'interno di un libro?

E ancora, vi è capitato mai di vedere il video di Bachelorette di Björk? Immaginate di trovare un libro in un bosco: le pagine sono bianche ma pian piano la storia inizia a scriversi da sé ed è esattamente la storia della vostra vita. Ecco cos'è stato leggere i Diari di Sylvia per me. È come trovare il libro della mia vita in una biblioteca impolverata, che non frequenta più nessuno.

Sento questa donna in un modo lacerante. Mi ritrovo nelle sue difficoltà, comprendo le sue fragilità avendole vissute e sperimentate in prima persona. Mi trovo giornalmente a fare i conti con la difficile arte della scrittura, e il senso di inadeguatezza, i rifiuti, la pigrizia, la perdita di fiducia in sé stessi, la poca autostima. Incredibile, è tutto così allineato a questo tempo...

Non posso dire altro. È scioccante, disarmante.

Not much is known about her poetry, and I haven't read The Bell Jar yet. However, her journals truly resonate with me. I really appreciate the rawness and vulnerability she展现ed in them. Like me and probably everyone else, she constantly second-guessed herself. At times, she felt brilliant, while at other times, she considered herself a failure. She felt bad for not reading more, writing more, or doing more. She even criticized herself for not learning French or German independently. She both feared and desired motherhood. Mentally, she was really confined by the 1950s belief system regarding what men and women should and shouldn't do and be. Overall, I really enjoyed this read.

Concreta, realista, umana. Sylvia Plath was a complex personality. There was a hidden fragility beneath a veil of cynicism and control that she hardly managed to hold but desired. She had a natural talent, even in writing her diaries which were not meant for strange eyes. Her words had a power that could touch the deepest corners of the human heart. She was able to express her emotions and thoughts with such clarity and intensity that it was almost as if she was laying her soul bare. I often wonder what it would be like to have even a quarter of her capacity and talent. To be able to write with such authenticity and passion, to be able to create works that would leave a lasting impact on the world. Sylvia Plath is truly an inspiration, a reminder of the power of words and the beauty that can be found in the most unexpected places.

Incredibile ma vero, ho terminato la lettura di questi diari. Li ho iniziato tipo a febbraio? Certo, non ho letto tutti i giorni, eccetera, ma questo libro è uno dei più densi che abbia mai affrontato.

Non ho (ancora) letto i libri di poesie di Sylvia Plath e ho intenzione di rimediare.

I Diari sono una lettura molto impegnativa, da intraprendere se si dispone di un periodo abbastanza libero. Ci si perde tra descrizioni meravigliose di paesaggi, frustrazioni e desiderio di grandezza. Sono le annotazioni segrete di un'aspirante (e poi di fatto) scrittrice scissa tra il desiderio di essere vista, riconosciuta come una grande pensatrice e quello di essere moglie e madre. Pensandoci bene, non è un caso che si sia suicidata dopo essere diventata madre: come i grandi personaggi di film e serie tv, una volta scelto quale parte del dualismo occupare, la loro narrazione era conclusa.

Detto questo, nei momenti in cui ho apprezzato i Diari, mi sono riconosciuto tanto nella Plath, con un intenso desiderio di scrivere e una paura terribile di rimanere sola. Mi hanno fatto riflettere sull'importanza di lasciare una traccia scritta, qualcosa di noi in cui le altre si possano riconoscere e ritrovare. In più, per me il suo interesse per la Psicologia e ciò che scrive delle sue sedute psicanalitiche sono stati una piccola gemma. Difficile non immedesimarsi in lei.

La criticità di questo libro per me è la lunghezza. Considerando quanto è dispersivo, 400 pagine sono eterne. Tuttavia, vale la pena.

There is so much pain in these diaries. They have accompanied me for three months, given the enormous difficulty in reading them (due to extreme empathy). It's like a gaping hole in the chest, especially at the end. When you hope that a soul like this is not really dead so young.

The diaries seem to be a window into a world of suffering and turmoil. Each page is filled with the raw emotions and experiences of the writer. As I turn the pages, I can't help but feel a sense of sadness and helplessness.

The extreme empathy I feel while reading these diaries makes it almost unbearable at times. I can put myself in the shoes of the writer and understand the pain they are going through. It's a powerful reminder of the fragility of life and the importance of珍惜 every moment.

Despite the pain and sadness, there is also a glimmer of hope in these diaries. The writer's struggle and perseverance in the face of adversity is truly inspiring. It makes me believe that even in the darkest of times, there is always a way out.