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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 think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.
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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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You walked in, laughing, tears welling confused, mingling in your throat. How can you be so many women to so many people, oh you strange girl?
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The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone. She is used to this sort of thing. Her blacks crackle and drag.
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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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The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time.
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Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?
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Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
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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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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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Character is fate.
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I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
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My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing.
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A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
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I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.
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I hadn't, at the last moment, felt like washing off the two diagonal lines of dried blood that marked my cheeks. They seemed touching, and rather spectacular, and I thought I would carry them around with me, like the relic of a dead lover, till they wore off of their own accord.
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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.
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Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
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Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those.
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