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A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage.

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
Black
Parrot
Parrots
Cage
Cages
Lady
Keeps

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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
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I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.
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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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Talking about my fears to others feeds it.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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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 lay in that tub on the seventeenth floor of this hotel for-women-only, high up over the jazz and push of New York, for near unto an hour, and I felt myself growing pure again. I don't believe in baptism or the waters of Jordan or anything like that, but I guess I feel about a hot bath the way those religious people feel about holy water.
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I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.
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We know a thing by its opposite corollary hot by having experienced cold good by having decided what is bad love by hate.
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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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It is best to meet in a cul-de-sac, A palace of velvet With windows of mirrors. There one is safe, There are no family photographs, No rings through the nose, no cries.
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I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
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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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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
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God, it was good to let go, let the tight mask fall off, and the bewildered, chaotic fragments pour out. It was the purge, the catharsis.
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There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.
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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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The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.
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