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I am too pure for you or anyone.

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
Purity
Classic
Pure
Anyone
Feminism

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Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.
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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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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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Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.
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I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
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So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.
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I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.
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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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If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
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Your room is not your prison. You are.
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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 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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There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.
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We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.
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I am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.
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I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off
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As from a star I saw, coldly and soberly, the separateness of everything. I felt the wall of my skin I am I. That stone is a stone. My beautiful fusion with the things of this world was over.
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O heart, such disorganization!
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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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