In one of the first entries in her Journal, written in the summer of 1950 when she was eighteen years old, Sylvia Plath recorded her thoughts about being a writer and about her relationship as a writer with the world:
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.