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All the heat and fear had purged itself. I felt surprisingly at peace. The bell jar hung suspended a few feet above my head. I was open to the circulating air.

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
Felt
Hung
Heat
Purged
Air
Circulating
Feet
Surprisingly
Head
Jars
Open
Suspended
Peace
Bell
Fear
Bells

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What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.
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I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.
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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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And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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I talk to God but the sky is empty.
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Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn.
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And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
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I do not know who I am tonight.
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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
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I said: I must remember this, being small.
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I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.
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I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
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I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
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Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses.
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Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.
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..I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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Outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass.
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I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see, I swallow immediately. Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful.
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I am too pure for you or anyone.
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