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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
Balance
Passion
Interest
Running
Flare
Long
Balances
Life
Feminism
Classic
Short

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And if you have no past or future which, after all, is all that the present is made of, why then you may as well dispose of the empty shell of present and commit suicide.
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I decided I would put off the novel until I had gone to Europe and had a lover, and that I would never learn a word of shorthand. If I never learned shorthand I would never have to use it.
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I do not love I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.
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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
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I knew chemistry would be worse, because I'd seen a big card of the ninety-odd elements hung up in the chemistry lab, and all the perfectly good words like gold and silver and cobalt and aluminum were shortened to ugly abbreviations with different decimal numbers after them.
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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
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Your room is not your prison. You are.
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Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.
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I had always imagined myself hitching up on to my elbows on the delivery table after it was all over - dead white, of course, with no makeup and from the awful ordeal, but smiling and radiant, with my hair down to my waist, and reaching out for my first little squirmy child and saying its name, whatever it was.
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I feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.
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I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print, the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig-tree.
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What is so real as the cry of a child?
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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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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrifying, like madness, being tortured...with an informed and intelligent mind.
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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
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And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
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I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
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