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But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.

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
Long
Balances
Life
Feminism
Classic
Short
Balance
Passion
Interest
Running
Flare

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I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates. He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greek movie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined it for both of us.
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The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
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God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.
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It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.
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I am disabused of all faith, and see too clearly.
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I am myself. That is not enough.
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I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.
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I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
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Good to know that if I ever need attention all I have to do is die.
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I think I am worthwhile just because I have optical nerves and can try to put down what they perceive. What a fool!
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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.
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No, I won't try to escape myself by losing myself in artificial chatter 'Did you have a nice vacation?' 'Oh, yes, and you?' I'll stay here and try to pin that loneliness down.
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I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It's gone forever.
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Dancing is the normal prelude to intercourse.
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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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Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.
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I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
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