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I must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.

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
Back
Soul
Without
Must
Feminism
Classic
Flesh
Killing

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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.
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Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
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Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it.
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Perhaps you considered yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other. Thirty years now I have labored To dredge the silt from your throat. I am none the wiser.
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I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.
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With that strange knowing that comes over me, like a clairvoyance, I know that I am sure of myself and my enormous and alarmingly timeless love for you which will always be.
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I am disabused of all faith, and see too clearly.
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What I hate is the thought of being under a man's thumb, I had told Doctor Nolan. A man doesn't have a worry in the world, while I've got a baby hanging over my head like a big stick, to keep me in line.
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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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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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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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And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage.
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I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.
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Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those.
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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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