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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

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Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.
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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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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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I am too pure for you or anyone.
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I feel that very strongly: having been an academic, having been tempted by the invitation to stay on to become a Ph.D., a professor, and all that, one side of me certainly does respect all disciplines, as long as they don't ossify.
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With that strange knowing that comes over me, like a clairvoyance, I know that I am sure of myself and my enormous and alarmingly timeless love for you which will always be.
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Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.
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Don't let the wicked city get you down.
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And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off
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I felt dumb and subdued. Every time I tried to concentrate, my mind glided off, like a skater, into a large empty space, and pirouetted there, absently.
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I am disabused of all faith, and see too clearly.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
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What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.
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I want, I think, to be omniscient. I think I would like to call myself the girl who wanted to be God. Yet if I were not in this body where would I be-perhaps I am destined to be classified and qualified. But, oh, I cry out against it.
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Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.
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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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