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There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.

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
Make
Puking
Like
Feminism
Classic
Inspiring
Friendship
Somebody
Friends
Nothing

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Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.
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I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.
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For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.
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I am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.
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It was sometime in October she had long ago lost track of all the days and it really didn’t matter because one was like another and there were no nights to separate them because she never slept any more.
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I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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The hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted & spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.
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I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn’t taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallowers’ sword and made me feel powerful and godlike.
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A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage.
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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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I'm about fifty years behind as far as my preferences go and I must say that the poets who excite me most are the Americans. There are very few contemporary English poets that I admire.
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What did my arms do before they held you?
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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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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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…beating time along the edge of thought.
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It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.
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When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, lying in the tup and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank into sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.
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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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