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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
Necks
Thick
Silent
Hate
Speak
Neck

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The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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Tomorrow I will curse the dawn, but there will be other, earlier nights, and the dawns will be no longer hell laid out in alarms and raw bells and sirens.
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Winter is for women The woman still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanish walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.
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I am myself. That is not enough.
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So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.
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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 deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.
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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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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.
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Pretty soon, the only doubt in my mind was the precise time and method of committing suicide. The only alternative I could see was an eternity of hell for the rest of my life in a mental hospital, and I was going to use my last ounce of free choice and choose a quick clean ending.
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The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone. She is used to this sort of thing. Her blacks crackle and drag.
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No, I won't try to escape myself by losing myself in artificial chatter 'Did you have a nice vacation?' 'Oh, yes, and you?' I'll stay here and try to pin that loneliness down.
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I talk to God but the sky is empty.
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For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.
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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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So learn about life. Cut yourself a big slice with the silver server, a big slice of pie. Open your eyes. Let life happen.
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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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I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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I collect men with interesting names.
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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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