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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 am myself. That is not enough.
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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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The box is only temporary.
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I am made, crudely, for success.
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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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The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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I have this demon who wants me to run away screaming if I am going to be flawed, fallible. It wants me to think I'm so good I must be perfect. Or nothing. I am, on the contrary, something: a being who gets tired, has shyness to fight, has more trouble than most facing people easily.
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O heart, such disorganization!
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I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.
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Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.
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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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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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Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.
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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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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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I am what I feel and think and do.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defensless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.
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You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.
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I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.
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Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those.
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