Today I curled up with a pot of Earl Grey and read The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (2000). Her journals begin in 1950 when Plath was 18, a freshman at Smith. They end in early 1962. Ted Hughes burned the last journal (in which she no doubt recorded his mental cruelty and philandering). She killed herself February 11, 1963.

NYT review: “As maddeningly incomplete as they are, these journals are a revelation. Most strikingly, where one expects morbidity, one finds instead an almost pagan relish for life.”

[Thinks of the line from Annie Hall: “Oh, Sylvia Plath, whose tragic suicide was misinterpreted as romantic by the schoolgirl mentality.”]

Well, Woody Allen got it 2/3 right. Her suicide was tragic. My schoolgirl mentality could relate to aspects of Sylvia’s life. But nothing about her death seemed “romantic.”

Her journal is absorbing on many different levels, though: voyeuristic (a glimpse into a sexy debutante’s not-so-good-girl’s journal); analytic/medical (a glimpse into a young, intelligent mind on-the-edge-of-madness), academic (a chance to live vicariously through her “dream” academic career), and as a period piece (a vivid trek through 1950’s life and mores).

The hours flew by. I got home with her words throbbing in my temples and feeling the weight of a familiar brilliance, creative inspiration, trivial foolishness and pettiness . . . elements that unchecked can destroy a human spirit . . .

Felt no deep affinity with Sylvia Plath, just sympathy and a confused relief that through cruel (?) fate my own life was denied that sort of insanity, intensity and a career in the world of screwed-up narcissistic poets. (Came close, though.)

i borrowed it from the library and read a few pages then started a full time job. at the moment, and for the foreseeable future, i don’t have the time i’d like to commit to it to read it properly, because i don’t want to read a page here and there, snatching reading time whenever i can; i want to read it cover to cover without stopping.

i have loved every single word. Precisely the descriptions. It’s like walking in her shadow.

one day i’ll finish this, just not now.

I can’t get through this book. I thought I would really enjoy it, but I’m afraid the descriptive writing was just too much for me to get through. I loved The Bell Jar, though. Go figure.