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

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And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.
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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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God, if ever I have come close to wanting to commit suicide, it is now, with the groggy sleepless blood dragging through my veins, and the air thick and gray with rain ... I fell into bed again this morning, begging for sleep, withdrawing into the dark, warm, fetid escape from action, from responsibility. No good.
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I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!
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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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Your room is not your prison. You are.
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I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.
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With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start.
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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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Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
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I am made, crudely, for success.
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Is anyone anywhere happy?
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And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his mantel with a date engraved on it like the date on a tombstone.
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I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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