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And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.

Sylvia Plath

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Sylvia Plath
Age: 30 †
Born: 1932
Born: October 27
Died: 1963
Died: February 11
Autobiographer
Diarist
Essayist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Boston
Massachusetts
Victoria Lucas
Sylvia Plath Hughes
Everything
Classic
Self
Sadness
Writing
Creativity
Improvise
Way
Worst
Outgoing
Life
Doubt
Improvising
Imagination
Sad
Enemy
Guts
Written
Feminism

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She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.
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I hurl my heart to halt his pace.
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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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I must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.
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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
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we walk the plank with strangers.
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I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defensless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.
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The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.
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And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
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I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off.
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If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.
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I felt wise and cynical as all hell.
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To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.
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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.
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I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, This is what it is to be happy.
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