Dead Writers

I've been reading lately the journals of Sylvia Plath and the letters of Gustav Flaubert. The differences between those 2 people of letters are giving me a split headache.
One - secluded and resilient in his hatred of society, alone and unflinchingly intolerant towards conventions of his time, astounding ability to pursue purely intellectual projects which took years to complete, unfailing and independent of criticism, which came his way in buckets throughout his entire literary life.
"We must laugh and cry, enjoy and suffer, in a word, vibrate to our full capacity … I think that’s what being really human means."

The other - personal, revealing writing rooted in experience, thirsty for approval, destroyed by depression and loneliness, by the need for an unbound love she always sought, and not even the existence of her young children could save her from herself or provide a center around which she could focus and go on living after that love proved its true nature.
"Remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it. I want to become acutely aware of all I’ve taken for granted."