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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.

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
Trouble
Thought
Inadequate
Hadn
Along
Simply

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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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The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, This is what it is to be happy.
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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.
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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
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Ironically, Henry James' biography comforts me & I long to make known to him his posthumous reputation he wrote, in pain, gave all his life (which is more than I could think of doing I have Ted, will have children but few friends) & the critics insulted & mocked him, readers didn't read him.
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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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Then I thought, No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.
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So learn about life. Cut yourself a big slice with the silver server, a big slice of pie. Open your eyes. Let life happen.
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because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
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And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness
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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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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
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Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.
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And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
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