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I talk to God but the sky is empty.

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
Fear
Atheism
Empty
Doubt
Sad
Prayer
Novelists
Lord
Rage
Talk
Sadness
Faith
God
Christian
Sky

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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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It never occurred to me to say no.
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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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For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.
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Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: 'I'll go take a hot bath.
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My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.
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I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see, I swallow immediately. Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful.
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I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.
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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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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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Is anyone anywhere happy?
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.
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Outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass.
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I do not know who I am tonight.
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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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Tomorrow I will curse the dawn, but there will be other, earlier nights, and the dawns will be no longer hell laid out in alarms and raw bells and sirens.
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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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I like people too much or not at all. I've got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.
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The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.
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