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

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No day is safe from news of you.
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I have taken a pill to kill The thin Papery feeling.
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I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.
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If every soldier refused to take arms ... there would be no wars but no one has the courage to be the first to live according to Christ and Socrates, because in a world of opportunists they would be martyred.
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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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And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.
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If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.
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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 need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.
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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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With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start.
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I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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No, I won't try to escape myself by losing myself in artificial chatter 'Did you have a nice vacation?' 'Oh, yes, and you?' I'll stay here and try to pin that loneliness down.
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Your room is not your prison. You are.
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I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.
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You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.
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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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Is there no way out of the mind?
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I used to pray to recover you.
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I lay in that tub on the seventeenth floor of this hotel for-women-only, high up over the jazz and push of New York, for near unto an hour, and I felt myself growing pure again. I don't believe in baptism or the waters of Jordan or anything like that, but I guess I feel about a hot bath the way those religious people feel about holy water.
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