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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
Life
Doubt
Improvising
Imagination
Sad
Enemy
Guts
Written
Feminism
Everything
Classic
Self
Sadness
Writing
Creativity
Improvise
Way
Worst
Outgoing

More quotes by Sylvia Plath

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I am myself. That is not enough.
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Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.
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Look at that ugly dead mask here and do not forget it. It is a chalk mask with dead dry poison behind it, like the death angel. It is what I was this fall, and what I never want to be again. The pouting disconsolate mouth, the flat, bored, numb, expressionless eyes: symptoms of the foul decay within.
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To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.
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Not being perfect hurts.
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In spite of everything, I still have my good old sense of humor.
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It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.
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Ironically, Henry James' biography comforts me & I long to make known to him his posthumous reputation he wrote, in pain, gave all his life (which is more than I could think of doing I have Ted, will have children but few friends) & the critics insulted & mocked him, readers didn't read him.
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I am made, crudely, for success.
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I need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible, someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up in shuddering horror and fear of the cement tunnels leading down to the shock room, to comfort me with an assurance that no psychiatrist can quite manage to convey.
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I need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.
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The box is only temporary.
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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ
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Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it.
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Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those.
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And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.
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Ash, ash —- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
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Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.
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The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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