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Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.

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
Make
Chaos
Sorrow
Perhaps
Crawl
Beauty
Heartbreak
Stories
Beaten
Home
Defeated
Back
Feminism
Long
Classic

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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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What I didn't say was that each time I picked up a German dictionary or a German book, the very sight of those dense, black, barbed-wire letters made my mind shut like a clam.
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I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.
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I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.
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I talk to God but the sky is empty.
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But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.
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Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.
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I am what I feel and think and do.
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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion an insight like the flight of birds.
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I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.
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Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.
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I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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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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Outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass.
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we walk the plank with strangers.
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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Tomorrow I will curse the dawn, but there will be other, earlier nights, and the dawns will be no longer hell laid out in alarms and raw bells and sirens.
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She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.
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