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You smile. No, it is not fatal.

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
Fatal
Smile

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The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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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 must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.
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There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.
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Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.
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I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I could respect him.
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Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.
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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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Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
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Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those.
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I collect men with interesting names.
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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline, you've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space that you've just got to turn away all the peripherals.
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That’s one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
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To look at her, you might not guess that inside she is laughing and crying, at her own stupidities and luckiness, and at the strange enigmatic ways of the world which she will spend lifetime trying to learn and understand.
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I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.
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In spite of everything, I still have my good old sense of humor.
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My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing.
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At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
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But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.
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If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
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