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I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
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
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Arrows
July
Directions
Fourth
Shoot
Excitement
Rocket
Change
Rockets
Wanted
Colored
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.
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Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.
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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrifying, like madness, being tortured...with an informed and intelligent mind.
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God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.
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I am sure there are things that can't be cured by a good bath but I can't think of one.
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There was a beautiful time.
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We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.
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Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it.
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In spite of everything, I still have my good old sense of humor.
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Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: 'I'll go take a hot bath.
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The box is only temporary.
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The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time.
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.
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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 like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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I am not cruel, only truthful.
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I don't know what started me, I just wrote poetry from the time was quite small. I guess I liked nursery rhymes and I guess I thought I could do the same thing. I wrote my first poem, my first published poem, when I was eight-and-a-half years old. It came out in The Boston Traveller and from then on, I suppose, I've been a bit of a professional.
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Not being perfect hurts.
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Is there no way out of the mind?
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