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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
Summer
Decided
Spend
Novel
Writing
Would
People

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I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print, the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig-tree.
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A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion an insight like the flight of birds.
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.
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Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
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If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.
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You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you.
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.
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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
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We know a thing by its opposite corollary hot by having experienced cold good by having decided what is bad love by hate.
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I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.
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... stop trying to get me to write about 'decent courageous people' -- read the Ladies' Home Journal for those! ... I believe in going through and facing the worst, not hiding from it.
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God, if ever I have come close to wanting to commit suicide, it is now, with the groggy sleepless blood dragging through my veins, and the air thick and gray with rain ... I fell into bed again this morning, begging for sleep, withdrawing into the dark, warm, fetid escape from action, from responsibility. No good.
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For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.
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I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.
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I used to pray to recover you.
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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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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, lying in the tup and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank into sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.
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