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

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In spite of everything, I still have my good old sense of humor.
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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.
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Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it
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You ask me why I spend my life writing? Do I find entertainment? Is it worthwhile? Above all, does it pay? If not, then, is there a reason?... I write only because there is a voice within me. That will not be still.
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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ
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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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For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.
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Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.
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I had hoped, at my departure, I would feel sure and knowledgeable about everything that lay ahead -- after all, I had been analyzed. Instead, all I could see were question marks.
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Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.
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The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.
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You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.
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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrifying, like madness, being tortured...with an informed and intelligent mind.
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In this particular tub, two knees jut up like icebergs, while minute brown hairs rise on arms and legs in a fringe of kelp green soap navigates the tidal slosh of seas breaking on legendary beaches in faith we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.
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…beating time along the edge of thought.
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I do not know who I am tonight.
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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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