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How we need another soul to cling to.

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
Soul
Need
Needs
Companionship
Cling
Yearning
Loneliness
Another

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I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
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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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Why honey, don't you want to get dressed? My mother took care never to tell me to do anything. She would only reason with me sweetly, like one intelligent, mature person with another. It's almost three in the afternoon. I'm writing a novel, I said. I haven't got time to change into this and change into that.
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Let's face it: I'm scared, scared and frozen. First, I guess, I'm afraid for myself...the old primitive urge for survival. It's getting so I live every moment with terrible intensity.
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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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Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.
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I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
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The moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, white and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
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I think I may well be a Jew.
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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So I began to think maybe it was true that when you were married and had children it was like being brainwashed, and afterward you went about as numb as a slave in a totalitarian state.
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I don't know what started me, I just wrote poetry from the time was quite small. I guess I liked nursery rhymes and I guess I thought I could do the same thing. I wrote my first poem, my first published poem, when I was eight-and-a-half years old. It came out in The Boston Traveller and from then on, I suppose, I've been a bit of a professional.
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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defensless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.
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O heart, such disorganization!
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There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.
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I have taken a pill to kill The thin Papery feeling.
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I collect men with interesting names.
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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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