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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

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
Pick
Picks
Call
Like
Sticky
Pearls
Worms

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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 do not fear it: I have been there.
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I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see, I swallow immediately. Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful.
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Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.
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The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm
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I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.
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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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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.
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I have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.
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You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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Frustrated? Yes. Why? Because it is impossible for me to be God — or the universal woman-and-man — or anything much. I am what I feel and think and do. I want to express my being as fully as I can because I somewhere picked up the idea that I could justify my being alive that way.
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The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed.
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I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
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The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.
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I need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.
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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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I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
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I like people too much or not at all.
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