I do cherish Sylvia Plath’s journals,[1] I very much do, but one word, one family of words, she uses often I abhor always—well, almost always: create, creative, creating, creativity… The grating, rasping, croaking battle cry of our loveless, sullen, frigid, limp, barren age!

Addendum (December 1, 2017)

Although Sylvia Plath has faded from my life over the years, I remember her only when creativity pops up in front of my face. In the meanwhile, my abhorrence of anything to do with it has only gathered momentum. Nowadays, everyone is a creator. Blasphemy is the epitome of this barren age. And I am far from religious, I hasten to add. In fact, it is the religious who blaspheme the most in spite of so many caveats in the books they swear by with passion. Creators all, they take great pride of their creative creations, which they keep creating at a clip. The battle cry of a bungled creation, to put it into a nutshell.

Footnote

1. The Journals of Sylvia Plath: 1950-1962, Karen V. Kukil, ed., London: Faber & Faber, 2000.