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I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead I lift my eyes and all is born again.

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
Eyes
Drops
Eye
Lift
Born
Lifts
World
Shut
Chaos
Perspective
Spring
Dead

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And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.
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I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
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Not being perfect hurts.
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I may have made a straight A in physics, but I was panic-struck. Physics made me sick the whole time I learned it.
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All the heat and fear had purged itself. I felt surprisingly at peace. The bell jar hung suspended a few feet above my head. I was open to the circulating air.
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And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
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We know a thing by its opposite corollary hot by having experienced cold good by having decided what is bad love by hate.
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I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!
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I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.
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I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free—— The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
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Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.
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It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)
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A skeptic, I would ask for consistency first of all.
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The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.
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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.
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And you grit your teeth, despising yourself for your tremulous sensitivity, and wondering how human beings can suffer their individualities to be mercilessly crushed under a machinelike dictatorship, be it of industry, state or organization, all their lives long.
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A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.
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I must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.
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Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.
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