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So I began to think maybe it was true that when you were married and had children it was like being brainwashed, and afterward you went about as numb as a slave in a totalitarian state.

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
States
Numb
Children
Began
Think
Slave
Thinking
Married
Like
Went
Maybe
Brainwashed
State
Totalitarian
True
Afterward

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I think I may well be a Jew.
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The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
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I wonder about all the roads not taken and am moved to quote Frost...but won't. It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me.
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I feel that very strongly: having been an academic, having been tempted by the invitation to stay on to become a Ph.D., a professor, and all that, one side of me certainly does respect all disciplines, as long as they don't ossify.
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In spite of everything, I still have my good old sense of humor.
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I knew you'd decide to be all right again.
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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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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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The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time.
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I talk to God but the sky is empty.
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Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing- singing, laughing, learning.
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If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.
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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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I must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.
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A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.
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A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.
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How we need another soul to cling to.
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The box is only temporary.
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