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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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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!
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I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.
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Is there no way out of the mind?
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Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.
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A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.
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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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The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.
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I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles.
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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 dead to them, even though I once flowered.
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One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.
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I felt dumb and subdued. Every time I tried to concentrate, my mind glided off, like a skater, into a large empty space, and pirouetted there, absently.
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I talk to God but the sky is empty.
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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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Character is fate.
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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 woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
Sylvia Plath