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I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.

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
Fossils
Lean
Tell
Fossil
Numb

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I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.
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I think I may well be a Jew.
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As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.
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What I want back is what I was Before the bed, before the knife, Before the brooch-pin and the salve Fixed me in this parenthesis Horses fluent in the wind, A place, a time gone out of mind.
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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
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I am flushed and warm. I think I may be enormous, I am so stupidly happy, My wellingtons Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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All the heat and fear had purged itself. I felt surprisingly at peace. The bell jar hung suspended a few feet above my head. I was open to the circulating air.
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If I have a dry spell ... I wait and live harder, eyes, ears, and heart open, and when the productive time comes, it is that much richer.
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I must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.
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I am sure there are things that can't be cured by a good bath but I can't think of one.
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…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.
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because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
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we walk the plank with strangers.
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The hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted & spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.
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I think that as far as language goes I'm an American, I'm afraid, my accent is American, my way of talk is an American way of talk, I'm an old-fashioned American. That's probably one of the reasons why I'm in England now and why I'll always stay in England.
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August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
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Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.
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If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
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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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