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We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.

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
Friendship
Air
Meet
Another
Life

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If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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I feel that very strongly: having been an academic, having been tempted by the invitation to stay on to become a Ph.D., a professor, and all that, one side of me certainly does respect all disciplines, as long as they don't ossify.
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I am not cruel, only truthful.
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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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The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren. Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
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Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.
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And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.
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Joy:show joy & enjoy: then others will be joyful.
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But I am I now and so many other millions are so irretrievably their own special variety of 'I' that I can hardly bear to think of it. I: how firm a letter how reassuring the three strokes: one vertical, proud and assertive, and then the two short horizontal lines in quick, smug succession. The pen scratching on the paper…I…I…I…I…I…I.
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Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person
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I collect men with interesting names.
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I like people too much or not at all.
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You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.
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I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.
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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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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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I feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.
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See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline, you've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space that you've just got to turn away all the peripherals.
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