I deeply admire Sylvia Plath. This woman had beautiful, meaningful, intellectual, and introspective thoughts.
"God, how I love it all. And who am I, God-whom-I-don't-believe-in? God-who-is-my-alter-ego? Suddenly the turn table switches to a higher speed, and in the whizzing that ensues I lose track of my identity. I act and react, and suddenly I wonder, "Where is the girl that I was last year? Two years ago?... What would she think of me now?" And I remember vaguely Tolstoy's argument about fate and inevitability and free will. As an act recedes into the past and becomes imbedded in the network of one's individuality it seems more and more a product of fate -- inevitable. However, an act in the immediate present seems to be more a product of free will."