Sylvia Plath

I picked up the Sylvia Plath Journals today at Barnes and Noble. I've been facinated by her life as much as her writing for sometime now and thought that I would share this passage as I think that it is just beautiful in a hidden, methaphoric sort of way. She writes about her own life in the same fashion as she wrote about the lives of the characters in her stories.
Eastham, Cape Cod

July 15, 1957. The virginal page, white. The first broken into and sent packing. All in dreams, the promises wait till I can write again, and then the painful, botched rape of the first page. Nothing said. A warm up. A detective. It is almost noon, and through the short spined green pines the sky is a luminous overhung grey. Some bastard's radio jazzs out of the trees like the green-eyed stinging flies. God has to remind me this isn't heaven by a long shot. So he increases the radios and the lethel flies.