She was an amazing writer, someone who really could dive deep into the mirkiest of her creative waters, and i truly respect her for that. My Grandmother told me once that to be all the people I wanted to be growing up, i would only ever need be a writer. i could only have become a writer. i think i understand what Sylvia was saying when she wrote this in her diary:
"I love people. Every body. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection. Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me. My love’s not impersonal yet not wholly subjective either. I would like to be every one, a cripple, a dying man, a whore, and then come back to write about my thoughts, my emotions, as that person. But I am not omniscient. I have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have. And you can not regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time…"
It's really hard to believe, reading this, that she would eventually kill herself.
Having a quiet moment for her today.
Love and cherished
Cherry Blossom
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