“I saw my life
branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the
tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned
and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and
another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor,
and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was
Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and
Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and
offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion,
and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite
make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving
to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I
would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one
meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the
figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the
ground at my feet.”
The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath
The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath