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You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.

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
Space
Barn
Barns
Envious
Spaces
Lean
Solid
Baby

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You ask me why I spend my life writing? Do I find entertainment? Is it worthwhile? Above all, does it pay? If not, then, is there a reason?... I write only because there is a voice within me. That will not be still.
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I am made, crudely, for success.
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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I knew you'd decide to be all right again.
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I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?
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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 hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted & spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.
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I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.
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In this particular tub, two knees jut up like icebergs, while minute brown hairs rise on arms and legs in a fringe of kelp green soap navigates the tidal slosh of seas breaking on legendary beaches in faith 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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What is so real as the cry of a child?
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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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I felt wise and cynical as all hell.
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What did my arms do before they held you?
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I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free—— The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
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And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.
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Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.
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Pretty soon, the only doubt in my mind was the precise time and method of committing suicide. The only alternative I could see was an eternity of hell for the rest of my life in a mental hospital, and I was going to use my last ounce of free choice and choose a quick clean ending.
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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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