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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ

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
Stitched
Organ
Organs
Rare
Life
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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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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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It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.
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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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God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.
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…'It always has to end, doesn't it? We always have to separate.' 'Yes,' I said. He was insistent, 'But it doesn't always have to be that way. We could be together some day for always.' 'Oh, no,' I told him, wondering if he knew it was all over. 'We keep running till we die. We separate, get further apart, till we are dead.
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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 felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
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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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But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.
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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 am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.
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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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If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
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Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.
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I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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Miracles occur, If you dare to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.
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