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Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.

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
People
Summer
Decided
Spend
Novel
Writing
Would

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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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I may have made a straight A in physics, but I was panic-struck. Physics made me sick the whole time I learned it.
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Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
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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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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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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
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It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.
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Pretty soon, the only doubt in my mind was the precise time and method of committing suicide. The only alternative I could see was an eternity of hell for the rest of my life in a mental hospital, and I was going to use my last ounce of free choice and choose a quick clean ending.
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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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I think if I had done anything else I would like to have been a doctor. This is the sort of polar opposition to being a writer, I suppose.
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You are a dream I hope I never meet you.
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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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Is anyone anywhere happy?
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I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
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Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.
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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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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.
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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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