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God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.

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
Long
Flies
Increases
Remind
Shot
Shots
Radio
Increase
Radios
Heaven
Lethal

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You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you.
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I want, I think, to be omniscient. I think I would like to call myself the girl who wanted to be God. Yet if I were not in this body where would I be-perhaps I am destined to be classified and qualified. But, oh, I cry out against it.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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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 am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.
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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
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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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I knew chemistry would be worse, because I'd seen a big card of the ninety-odd elements hung up in the chemistry lab, and all the perfectly good words like gold and silver and cobalt and aluminum were shortened to ugly abbreviations with different decimal numbers after them.
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What I want back is what I was Before the bed, before the knife, Before the brooch-pin and the salve Fixed me in this parenthesis Horses fluent in the wind, A place, a time gone out of mind.
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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.
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But everybody has exactly the same smiling frightened face, with the look that says: I'm important. If you only get to know me, you will see how important I am. Look into my eyes. Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.
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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.
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I do not fear it: I have been there.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.
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I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.
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This seemed a dreary and wasted life for a girl with fifteen years of straight A's, but I knew that's what marriage was like, because cook and clean and wash was just what Buddy Willard's mother did from morning till night, and she was the wife of a university professor and had been a private school teacher herself.
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And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness
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