To whom it may concern: I justified the mess I made of life by saying I'd give it order, form, beauty, writing about it; I justified my writing by saying it would be published, give me life (and prestige to life)... I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with. I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic... He wants to be scolded, and punished. That is too easy. That is what we all want. I want to get back to my more normal intermediate path where the substance of the world is permeated by my being... so all is good in itself, and not just a hectic activity to cover up the fear that must face itself and duel itself to death, saying A Life is Passing. There are ways and ways to have a love affair. Above all, one must not be serious about it.
How important is all this? I don't know: it changes, like looking in different ends of a telescope.
Sylvia Plath. Cambridge Notes.
♥
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