Quote

And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.

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
Long
Lasts
Loneliness
Grinning
Last
Kept
Feeble
Words
Ugly
Pour
Someone
Inside
Utter
Soul
Stop
Meaningless
Cramped
Find
Small
Feminism
Opiates
Feel
Secret
Shock
Rusty
Feels
Dark
Classic
Gaiety

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Winning or losing an argument, receiving an acceptance or rejection, is no proof of the validity or value of personal identity. One may be wrong, mistaken, or a poor craftsman, or just ignorant - but this is no indication of the true worth of one's total human identity: past, present and future!
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I think if I had done anything else I would like to have been a doctor. This is the sort of polar opposition to being a writer, I suppose.
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Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?
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If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.
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And you grit your teeth, despising yourself for your tremulous sensitivity, and wondering how human beings can suffer their individualities to be mercilessly crushed under a machinelike dictatorship, be it of industry, state or organization, all their lives long.
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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
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I'm about fifty years behind as far as my preferences go and I must say that the poets who excite me most are the Americans. There are very few contemporary English poets that I admire.
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Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.
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I've got to have something. I want to stop it all, the whole monumental grotesque joke, before it's too late. But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates. He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greek movie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined it for both of us.
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I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off
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Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
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The box is only temporary.
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Your room is not your prison. You are.
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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
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If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.
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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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I do not love I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.
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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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