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Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn.
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
Life
Learn
Understand
Someone
Littles
Feminism
Little
Classic
Hard
Ideals
Much
Somewhere
Love
Despair
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
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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A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
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I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
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I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.
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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.
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Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.
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I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.
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And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
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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 like people too much or not at all. I've got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.
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Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.
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I had hoped, at my departure, I would feel sure and knowledgeable about everything that lay ahead -- after all, I had been analyzed. Instead, all I could see were question marks.
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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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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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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Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.
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Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.
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I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.
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