I made a recent amazing discovery: that of Sylvia Plath’s writings. Until recently I knew little about her other than what Ryan Adams’ wonderfully evoked in his lyrics of a longing for her traits in the women he meets. That and an impulse buy decision during my last visit to Reston, VA did the rest …

Here’s an interesting excerpt from her journals:

(regarding her romantic relationship with men)

One relies so on single symbols which supposedly presage large assumptions. He goes to ballets, ergo he must be sensitive and artistic. He quotes poetry, ergo he must be a kindred spirit. He reads Joyce, ergo he must be a genius.

Let’s face it, I am in danger of wanting my personal absolute to be a demigod of a man, and as there aren’t many around, I often unconsciously manufacture my own. And then, I retreat and revel in poetry and literature where the reward value is tangible and accepted. I really do not think deeply, really deeply. I want a romantic nonexistent hero.

She seems like a very introspective person to me, full of potential, skill and sensibility. Some of which lead her to a troubled life that ended in suicide. That is all I know thus far. Still in the middle of a short plunge into her life and work.

What I really admire in her writings (other than the beauty of her imagery and associations, which are only partially visible in her journals, I will have to read her more to get a full taste) is how complex topics such as career, sexuality, health, personality and beauty come out in the simplest of analysis and seem mundanely obvious to our eyes when under her dissecting light.

Particularly evoking are her references to the romantic endeavor, as can be seen above. If only I had been quite as unassuming and sincere on this the utmost of complications brought upon us by adult life, I might have fared a little better.

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