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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
Like
Stitched
Organ
Organs
Rare
Life

More quotes by Sylvia Plath

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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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For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.
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I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.
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I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
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The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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Winter is for women The woman still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanish walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.
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There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
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I hurl my heart to halt his pace.
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And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
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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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I am not cruel, only truthful.
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Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.
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If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.
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Character is fate.
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See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
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I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.
Sylvia Plath
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Not being perfect hurts.
Sylvia Plath
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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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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
Sylvia Plath
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The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.
Sylvia Plath