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At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.

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
Twenties
Bones
Tried
Dies
Thought
Back
Even
Would
Twenty

More quotes by Sylvia Plath

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I want to taste and glory in each day, and never be afraid to experience pain and never shut myself up in a numb core of nonfeeling, or stop questioning and criticizing life and take the easy way out. To learn and think: to think and live to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.
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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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That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. Save them for my funeral, I'd said.
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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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There was a beautiful time.
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A psychiatrist is the god of our age. But they cost money.
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Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing- singing, laughing, learning.
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I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.
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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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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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And if you have no past or future which, after all, is all that the present is made of, why then you may as well dispose of the empty shell of present and commit suicide.
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No day is safe from news of you.
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A skeptic, I would ask for consistency first of all.
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I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.
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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.
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The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.
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Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.
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In spite of everything, I still have my good old sense of humor.
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I've got to have something. I want to stop it all, the whole monumental grotesque joke, before it's too late. But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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