Apr 22, 2024
Sylvia Plath can say: “I love people. Everybody. 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 everyone, a cripple, a dying man, a whore, and then come back to write about my thoughts, my emotions, as that person.”
Yet she will also say: “I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.”
And I think I just about resonate in the perfunctory juxtapository of this paradox, to feel too much or not at all, to love and be irrepressibly hated.
