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Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.
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
Thick
Silent
Hate
Speak
Neck
Necks
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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I saw the years of my life spaced along a road in the form of telephone poles threaded together by wires. I counted one, two, three... nineteen telephone poles, and then the wires dangled into space, and try as I would, I couldn't see a single pole beyond the nineteenth.
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Outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass.
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Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.
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Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it, or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.
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If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.
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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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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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Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?
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The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time.
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I like people, but to learn about one individual always appeals to me more than anything.
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I have taken a pill to kill The thin Papery feeling.
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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To look at her, you might not guess that inside she is laughing and crying, at her own stupidities and luckiness, and at the strange enigmatic ways of the world which she will spend lifetime trying to learn and understand.
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The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.
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There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
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If every soldier refused to take arms ... there would be no wars but no one has the courage to be the first to live according to Christ and Socrates, because in a world of opportunists they would be martyred.
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You walked in, laughing, tears welling confused, mingling in your throat. How can you be so many women to so many people, oh you strange girl?
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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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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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