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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.

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
Heaven
Lying
Stills
Still
May
Back
Shan
Even
Lies
Meet

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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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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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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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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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I had imagined a kind, ugly, intuitive man looking up and say, 'Ah!' in an encouraging way, as if he could see something I couldn't, and then I would find words to tell him how I was so scared, as if I were being stuffed farther and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out.
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I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.
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Not being perfect hurts.
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I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!
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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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Is there no way out of the mind?
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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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And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.
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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 felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his mantel with a date engraved on it like the date on a tombstone.
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Then I thought, No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.
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I am made, crudely, for success.
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And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
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I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates. He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greek movie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined it for both of us.
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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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Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.
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