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I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.

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
Adding
Couldn
Started
Things

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If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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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 buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
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So I kiss him, and there is the great dark sea ahead.
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I lay in that tub on the seventeenth floor of this hotel for-women-only, high up over the jazz and push of New York, for near unto an hour, and I felt myself growing pure again. I don't believe in baptism or the waters of Jordan or anything like that, but I guess I feel about a hot bath the way those religious people feel about holy water.
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I want, I think, to be omniscient. I think I would like to call myself the girl who wanted to be God. Yet if I were not in this body where would I be-perhaps I am destined to be classified and qualified. But, oh, I cry out against it.
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There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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I knew you'd decide to be all right again.
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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
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Perhaps you considered yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other. Thirty years now I have labored To dredge the silt from your throat. I am none the wiser.
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O heart, such disorganization!
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What I didn't say was that each time I picked up a German dictionary or a German book, the very sight of those dense, black, barbed-wire letters made my mind shut like a clam.
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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
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What did my arms do before they held you?
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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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Frustrated? Yes. Why? Because it is impossible for me to be God — or the universal woman-and-man — or anything much. I am what I feel and think and do. I want to express my being as fully as I can because I somewhere picked up the idea that I could justify my being alive that way.
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Let's face it: I'm scared, scared and frozen. First, I guess, I'm afraid for myself...the old primitive urge for survival. It's getting so I live every moment with terrible intensity.
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