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Is anyone anywhere happy?

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
Happiness
Happy
Anywhere
Anyone

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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
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There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart - It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge, For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
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The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed.
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But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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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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If every soldier refused to take arms ... there would be no wars but no one has the courage to be the first to live according to Christ and Socrates, because in a world of opportunists they would be martyred.
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Character is fate.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.
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You are a dream I hope I never meet you.
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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
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...we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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I have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.
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If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
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Talking about my fears to others feeds it.
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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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What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid.
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Read widely of others' experiences, even if it'd be more comfortable to snuggle back in the comforting cotton-wool of blissful ignorance.
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Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.
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