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The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.

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
Wreckage
Pebbles
Drew
Shells
Silence
Life
Baring

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I need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible, someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up in shuddering horror and fear of the cement tunnels leading down to the shock room, to comfort me with an assurance that no psychiatrist can quite manage to convey.
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I felt dumb and subdued. Every time I tried to concentrate, my mind glided off, like a skater, into a large empty space, and pirouetted there, absently.
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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.
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As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.
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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
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And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn.
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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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When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It's gone forever.
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I wonder why I don't go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.
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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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I said: I must remember this, being small.
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What a man wants is a mate and what a woman wants is infinite security,’ and, ‘What a man is is an arrow into the future and a what a woman is is the place the arrow shoots off from.
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What I hate is the thought of being under a man's thumb, I had told Doctor Nolan. A man doesn't have a worry in the world, while I've got a baby hanging over my head like a big stick, to keep me in line.
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I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
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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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Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.
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