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

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Is anyone anywhere happy?
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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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I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead I lift my eyes and all is born again.
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Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.
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…beating time along the edge of thought.
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Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it.
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I am myself. That is not enough.
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Frustrated? Yes. Why? Because it is impossible for me to be God — or the universal woman-and-man — or anything much. I am what I feel and think and do. I want to express my being as fully as I can because I somewhere picked up the idea that I could justify my being alive that way.
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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
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Ironically, Henry James' biography comforts me & I long to make known to him his posthumous reputation he wrote, in pain, gave all his life (which is more than I could think of doing I have Ted, will have children but few friends) & the critics insulted & mocked him, readers didn't read him.
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I can't think logically about who I am or where I am going. I have been very ecstatic, horribly depressed, shocked, elated, enlightened, and enervated.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.
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As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.
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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 fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion an insight like the flight of birds.
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I decided I would put off the novel until I had gone to Europe and had a lover, and that I would never learn a word of shorthand. If I never learned shorthand I would never have to use it.
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I do not love I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.
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I need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.
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