The Journals of Sylvia Plath

There is a disturbing trend in some of my possessions. A lot of my books and music are the works of successful suicides. It's not that I'm particularly drawn to suicide, but I'm intensely drawn to the works of passionate, dramatic people. And passionate, dramatic people often meet passionate, dramatic ends.

In fact, I completely avoided the works of Sylvia Plath for a while, because I just knew of her as the suicide writer. It never occurred to me that she might actually also be really good. So, in one of my many college English courses, I was assigned her beekeeper poems. And I fell in love with her work. It was passionate, direct, and frighteningly insightful.

And so, I was given this book when it came out. And being so close in age to her at the time of her death and feeling so doomed myself, I ignored it. I've never read the entire book. Part of me thinks that it's none of my business and another part of me feels so pained by the way it all ends that I just don't want to look.

Maybe I never will look. It just hasn't felt right.

What will I do with it?
It's too painful to read. I'm going to sell it here.