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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.

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
Flower
Daze
Lying
Peacefulness
Free
Utterly
Idea
Feminism
Didn
Classic
Hands
Flowers
Ideas
Turned
Wanted
Empty

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When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.
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If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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A skeptic, I would ask for consistency first of all.
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I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead I lift my eyes and all is born again.
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The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.
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I am myself. That is not enough.
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I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print, the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig-tree.
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I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.
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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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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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But I am I now and so many other millions are so irretrievably their own special variety of 'I' that I can hardly bear to think of it. I: how firm a letter how reassuring the three strokes: one vertical, proud and assertive, and then the two short horizontal lines in quick, smug succession. The pen scratching on the paper…I…I…I…I…I…I.
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we walk the plank with strangers.
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The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed.
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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 have no preconceptions. Whatever I see, I swallow immediately. Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful.
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If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
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