Intenso, doloroso, sanguinante, terribilmente intimo.

Reading these diaries has been like completely immersing oneself in the dark and tangled mind of a human being, risking drowning in it.

The words on the pages seemed to come alive, painting a vivid picture of the turmoil and emotions within.

It was as if I was there, experiencing every moment with the author.

Each entry was a raw and honest account of their inner world, filled with pain, joy, and everything in between.

As I turned the last page, I let out a sigh of relief.

I had survived the journey through the diary and could now take a step back and reflect on what I had read.

It was a powerful and moving experience that had left a lasting impression on me.

Not sure how you're supposed to rate someone's diary.

Is it based on the coherence of the narrative, the depth of the emotions expressed, or perhaps the uniqueness of the writer's perspective?

"I am at my best in illogical, sensuous description."

This statement from the diary shows that the writer has a distinct writing style. She seems to embrace the chaos and beauty of the illogical, using sensuous language to paint vivid pictures in the reader's mind.

She was certainly self-aware; it was easy to skim read and not miss much.

Her self-awareness is evident in the way she presents her thoughts and feelings. She seems to know exactly what she wants to convey and how to do it in a concise yet impactful manner.

She also talked a lot about wanting to crawl back into the womb.

This recurring theme in her diary could suggest a longing for the safety and comfort of the prenatal state. It might also be a metaphor for her desire to escape from the challenges and uncertainties of the outside world.

Overall, her diary offers a fascinating glimpse into her inner world, filled with unique descriptions, self-awareness, and a longing for something more.

I wanted to wait a bit to put some thoughts in black and white, but enough, I don't care anymore, I finished it this morning and I have to say and write something off the cuff.

I would like to be able to say that I still have to metabolize, which is true, but probably I will never metabolize completely.

One of those books to pick up every so often, in the various stages of life, something new is found.

In the first part of the diaries, I felt all her will to live and have experiences, the pages were burning with how much energy they were charged with.

And I was moved several times, with a stupid smile all the time, thinking "gosh this girl is a hand grenade".

"Diary Pages" is diminutive, so many words full of force that I remain open-mouthed just at the thought that that was just a daily exercise, a habit.

I was even more moved seeing how that force and that will to break everything little by little weakened, always trying to go back over her steps, always trying to remember to put her thoughts in order.

She couldn't find her identity, always in tension between what she wanted to be and what she had to be, and it's precisely this that I think destroyed her year after year.

Everything really very touching, too touching, too close to home.

I write these things but in the meantime I'm still with half my body immersed in those pages.

Maybe I'll get out of it.

Maybe I don't want to.

Now a big BUT: the fact that they have practically censored all the "dirtier" sides, the sex life etc.. makes me very angry and not a little (reason why sooner or later I will surely recover the original version). Just like it makes me angry that Ted burned the last diaries (fuck you, really).

You feel that something is missing.

But, in any case, I have never felt so carried away and represented by the words of a person.

It was nice, too much.

And I also leave some sentences (among the many that I underlined) because yes, because I want to have them here too:

"I see the equally blind need to take the best there is right away, for fear that the future will not give me another chance"

"Nothing is real, except the present, and I already feel myself suffocating under the weight of the centuries. The flame that consumes arrives and immediately disappears: shifting sands, always. And I don't want to die."

"You need an outlet and they are all hermetically closed. You live day and night in the dark, a restricted vision that you have built with your own hands. And so here is the day when you feel that you will explode, you will break in two, if you cannot release the great reserve that boils within you and that escapes from some crack in the dam"

The first 30 pages are fascinating, drawn from Sylvia Plath's journals, giving us access to a young, free, and frank Sylvia Plath.

The remainder of the private notebooks focuses on several moments of her family life, which is very sad to read as the free Sylvia is no more, and we have the feeling of reading the diary of an ordinary housewife.

Then, a succession of new entries, each more banal than the other. What a pity. It doesn't measure up to the exceptional "The Bell Jar".

Overall, while the initial pages offer a glimpse into Plath's vibrant early self, the later sections seem to lose the spark and depth that made her work so remarkable. It's a bit disappointing to see her writing devolve into more ordinary musings about family life. However, it's important to remember that these are still her personal thoughts and experiences, and they do provide some insight into the different stages of her life.

Perhaps if we approach these journals with a different perspective, we can still find value in them, even if they don't reach the same heights as her more famous works.

Certi amori rimangono,

and I know that the pages of these diaries will remain impressed in me for a very long time yet. It is not at all simple to talk about such a book, which I wouldn't even properly call a book. There is no plot, structure, or construction: there is life and secrets, silences let out, trembling emotions, blinding fears. Torments. It is incredible to feel Sylvia Plath on the skin, her most intimate and shrewd humanity, uncensored. It is impossible not to love her, not to feel the desire to embrace her pages in order to reach her heart. Some pages made me cry, in others I identified myself, in others still I recognized a little. Sylvia Plath was a woman who loved deeply: everything.

In some passages I felt like asking her forgiveness, for the sufferings that the world has inflicted on her. Then you tell her thank you, for having been so able to fulfill (perhaps unconsciously) her greatest obsessive desire (because it was her primordial need): to write divinely for eternity.

In Sylvia Plath's diaries there are glimpses of descriptions and orange landscapes that will leave an emotional mark in your hearts forever. The way Plath looks at the world is recognizable to me and incredibly attached to the core of existence.

"A sparkle of the plasma that is life"

What can I say about this book except that it's a punch in the stomach, a blow from which it's difficult to recover and stand up without staggering for a while. Hardly does Plath leave me emotionally indifferent, and even in her imperfections, she always leaves me something to carry with me in my personal luggage.

Reading her personal diaries has allowed me to dig into the tortured psyche of a woman who is constantly in self-discussion, who rebuilds herself only to destroy herself again, in a continuous loop of intrusive thoughts that lead her to demoralize, rising up for a moment and then falling again.

The fact that these words of Plath were not written to be published is the greatest virtue and the greatest defect of this book. Inevitably, it carries with it a great truth, naked and raw, without embellishments, 100% authentic from every point of view. The parts that describe her depression and her emotional difficulties sometimes made me feel a pang, forcing me to stop reading and take a moment of pause.

At the same time, it is repetitive. Often the author gets caught in a vortex of intrusive and negative thoughts that follow one another all identical, without finding a positive development or a twist, exactly as happens in her head.

Regardless of everything, there is a kind of "red thread" that binds me to this writer in whatever she writes, who knows how to speak to me in a way that differentiates her from all the other authors I have ever read: and also this time, she was no exception.

I had the same feeling again and again while reading these pages.

It was as if I was coming face-to-face with the killer within. The self-sabotage, intertwined with the creation of oneself, is an experience that I will forever consider mine.

This duality has been a wild rollercoaster of feelings, oscillating between turmoil and triumph.

On one hand, there is the chaos and destruction brought about by self-sabotage, which can leave one feeling lost and defeated.

On the other hand, the act of creating oneself is a powerful and empowering process, filled with hope and possibility.

It is the constant battle between these two forces that makes life so complex and interesting.

As I continue to read and reflect on these pages, I am reminded of the importance of both acknowledging and embracing this duality within myself.

Only by doing so can I truly understand who I am and what I am capable of.

“Fammi essere forte, forte di sonno e di intelligenza e forte di ossa e fibra. Let me be strong, strong in sleep and intelligence, and strong in bones and fibers. Fammi imparare, attraverso questa disperazione, a distribuirmi: a sapere dove e a chi dare. Let me learn, through this despair, to spread myself: to know where and to whom to give. A riempire i brevi momenti e le chiacchiere casuali di quell’infuso speciale di devozione e amore che sono le nostre epifanie. To fill the brief moments and the casual conversations with that special infusion of devotion and love that are our epiphanies. A non essere amara. To not be bitter.

Risparmiamelo il finale, quel finale acido citrico aspro che scorre nelle vene delle donne in gamba e sole. Spare me the ending, that acidic, sour ending that runs in the veins of healthy and alone women. Non farmi disperare al punto da buttar via il mio onore per mancanza di consolazione. Don't make me despair to the point of throwing away my honor for lack of consolation. Non farmi nascondere nell’alcol e non permettere che mi laceri per degli sconosciuti. Don't make me hide in alcohol and don't allow me to tear myself apart for strangers. Non farmi essere tanto debole da raccontare agli altri come sanguino dentro. Don't make me so weak as to tell others how I bleed inside. Come giorno dopo giorno gocciola, si addensa e si coagula. Like day after day it drips, thickens and coagulates. Sono ancora giovane. I am still young. Persino ventitré anni e mezzo non sono troppi per ricominciare a vivere…” Even twenty-three and a half years are not too many to start living again…”

Ah, Sylvia

Ottima raccolta di riflessioni di una grandissima poetessa. Questo insieme di pensieri è davvero straordinario. La poetessa ha saputo esprimere le sue emozioni in modo così struggente e commovente che riesce a coinvolgere profondamente il lettore. Ogni riflessione è come una perla, preziosa e piena di significato. Leggere questo libro è un'esperienza unica, che permette di immergersi nel mondo intimo e profondo della poetessa. È un'opera che non può essere lasciata passare inosservata. Da leggere assolutamente, perché ha il potere di cambiare la nostra visione del mondo e farci riflettere sulle cose importanti della vita.

I have a profound admiration for Sylvia Plath. Her poetry and prose are truly beautiful, captivating the reader with their unique charm.

However, as I was reading this particular work, I couldn't help but be aware that it was edited by Ted Hughes. This knowledge led me to constantly question its reliability. There were numerous omissions throughout, leaving a great many questions unanswered. Perhaps I should have opted for the unabridged journals instead.

As I delved into the entries, I could clearly trace a powerful compulsion within Plath to be a great writer. She was constantly working, striving to improve, all while grappling with an overwhelming amount of inner pain. At times, it was extremely difficult to read, as her anguish was palpable. On the other hand, there were also moments when it became rather boring, which is why it took me a whole month to finish.

Interestingly, the 30 poems she wrote in a month, which ultimately led to the creation of Ariel, were undocumented in her journal. As the notes suggest, it was almost as if she had died emotionally long before she actually committed suicide. Through her journals, I believe one can gain a more vivid understanding of Plath's intelligence, her sense of humor, and the immense burden of pain that she carried with her.

Overall, while this edited version of her journals has its flaws, it still provides valuable insights into the mind and life of a remarkable and tragic writer.

In my life, there is a before and after this book.

This book has had a profound impact on me. It has opened up a new world of knowledge and ideas, expanding my horizons and changing my perspective.

Before reading this book, I may have been living in a relatively narrow and limited mindset. But after delving into its pages, I have discovered a wealth of information and inspiration that has motivated me to strive for more.

It has taught me valuable lessons about life, love, and success, and has given me the courage to pursue my dreams and face challenges head-on.

This book has truly become a turning point in my life, and I will always cherish the memories and insights it has provided.

It seemed to me that I was reading my own thoughts written by someone else's pen.

This strange feeling crept over me as I perused the words on the page.

It was as if my innermost musings had been plucked from my mind and put into writing by an unknown hand.

I couldn't help but wonder how this could be possible.

Was it just a coincidence, or was there something more profound at play?

The words seemed to resonate with me on a deep level, as if they were speaking directly to my soul.

I found myself lost in thought, reflecting on the meaning behind these seemingly familiar words.

Perhaps this was a sign that I was not as unique as I thought, that there were others out there who shared my same thoughts and feelings.

Or maybe it was a message from the universe, a reminder that we are all connected in some way.

Whatever the reason, this experience left a lasting impression on me, and I will always remember the moment when it seemed as if I was reading my own thoughts written by someone else's pen.