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Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.

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
Poet

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To learn and think to think and live to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.
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Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.
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I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off
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What is so real as the cry of a child?
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But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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I am too pure for you or anyone.
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..I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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I didn't really see why people should look at me. Plenty of people looked queerer than I did.
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If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.
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A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
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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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The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.
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I think I am worthwhile just because I have optical nerves and can try to put down what they perceive. What a fool!
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Look at that ugly dead mask here and do not forget it. It is a chalk mask with dead dry poison behind it, like the death angel. It is what I was this fall, and what I never want to be again. The pouting disconsolate mouth, the flat, bored, numb, expressionless eyes: symptoms of the foul decay within.
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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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How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotions, my feeling, by turning it into print?
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I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, This is what it is to be happy.
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A man's world is different from a woman's world and a man's emotions are different from a woman's emotions and only marriage can bring the two different sets of emotions together properly.
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There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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