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There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart - It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge, For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

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
Pieces
Scars
Hair
Scar
Goes
Charge
Blood
Hearing
Bits
Piece
Word
Touch
Heart
Large
Really
Clothes
Eyeing

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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.
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Joy:show joy & enjoy: then others will be joyful.
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When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, lying in the tup and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank into sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.
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Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.
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When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It's gone forever.
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I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free—— The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
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God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.
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What I cannot forgive is dishonesty - and no matter what, or how hard, I would rather know the truth of which I today had such a clear & devastating vision from his mouth than hear foul evasions, blurrings and rattiness.
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You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.
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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 need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible, someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up in shuddering horror and fear of the cement tunnels leading down to the shock room, to comfort me with an assurance that no psychiatrist can quite manage to convey.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.
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Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.
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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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The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
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I had always imagined myself hitching up on to my elbows on the delivery table after it was all over - dead white, of course, with no makeup and from the awful ordeal, but smiling and radiant, with my hair down to my waist, and reaching out for my first little squirmy child and saying its name, whatever it was.
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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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