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

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That’s one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
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At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.
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In spite of everything, I still have my good old sense of humor.
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…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.
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Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.
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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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A psychiatrist is the god of our age. But they cost money.
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The moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, white and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
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For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.
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It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.
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I have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.
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I want, I think, to be omniscient. I think I would like to call myself the girl who wanted to be God. Yet if I were not in this body where would I be-perhaps I am destined to be classified and qualified. But, oh, I cry out against it.
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Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.
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I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
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Dancing is the normal prelude to intercourse.
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So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.
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Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.
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