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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
Remind
Shot
Shots
Radio
Increase
Radios
Heaven
Lethal
Long
Flies
Increases

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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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I opened the door and blinked out into the bright hall. I had the impression it wasn't night and it wasn't day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end.
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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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If every soldier refused to take arms ... there would be no wars but no one has the courage to be the first to live according to Christ and Socrates, because in a world of opportunists they would be martyred.
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If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
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It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)
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Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.
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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.
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I said: I must remember this, being small.
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I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time.
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I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.
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The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
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Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.
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I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.
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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.
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