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Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.

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
Together
Coincidence
Self
Tale
Life
Questioning
Shock
Fairy
Joie
Tales
Vivre
Combination
Shocks
Beauty
Hurtful

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I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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What did my arms do before they held you?
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Good to know that if I ever need attention all I have to do is die.
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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I felt wise and cynical as all hell.
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What I didn't say was that each time I picked up a German dictionary or a German book, the very sight of those dense, black, barbed-wire letters made my mind shut like a clam.
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There was a beautiful time.
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No, I won't try to escape myself by losing myself in artificial chatter 'Did you have a nice vacation?' 'Oh, yes, and you?' I'll stay here and try to pin that loneliness down.
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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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I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
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But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.
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I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.
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I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
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I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.
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I had imagined a kind, ugly, intuitive man looking up and say, 'Ah!' in an encouraging way, as if he could see something I couldn't, and then I would find words to tell him how I was so scared, as if I were being stuffed farther and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out.
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And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
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So learn about life. Cut yourself a big slice with the silver server, a big slice of pie. Open your eyes. Let life happen.
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I'm about fifty years behind as far as my preferences go and I must say that the poets who excite me most are the Americans. There are very few contemporary English poets that I admire.
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If I have a dry spell ... I wait and live harder, eyes, ears, and heart open, and when the productive time comes, it is that much richer.
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