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So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.

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
Thinking
Lifetime
Working
Reading
Living
Enough
Much
Long

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Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses.
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Talking about my fears to others feeds it.
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Don't let the wicked city get you down.
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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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It's the living, the eating, the sleeping that everyone needs. Ideas don't matter so much after all. My three best friends are Catholic. I can't see their beliefs, but I can see the things they love to do on earth. When you come right down to it, I do believe in the freedom of the individual.
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Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.
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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.
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There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
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I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.
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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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I wonder about all the roads not taken and am moved to quote Frost...but won't. It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me.
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So I kiss him, and there is the great dark sea ahead.
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You are a dream I hope I never meet you.
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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotions, my feeling, by turning it into print?
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The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.
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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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And if you have no past or future which, after all, is all that the present is made of, why then you may as well dispose of the empty shell of present and commit suicide.
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To learn and think to think and live to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.
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