He claims not to be drinking, but I don’t think he knows what this means.

He had worked for an entire year to make a dream come true, and that dream, minute by minute, was becoming less important. Maybe because that wasn't really his dream.

When the possibilities themselves had accordingly turned stale, when the secret of the gods had grown faint, had perhaps even quite evaporated, that, and that only, was failure. It wouldn’t have been failure to be bankrupt, dishonoured, pilloried, hanged; it was failure not to be anything.

I like people too much or not at all. I've got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.

Written By Sylvia Plath

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