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If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.

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
Move
Moving
Makes
Find
Heart
Love
Pluck
Halt
Clock

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There was a beautiful time.
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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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I am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.
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I think if I had done anything else I would like to have been a doctor. This is the sort of polar opposition to being a writer, I suppose.
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It was sometime in October she had long ago lost track of all the days and it really didn’t matter because one was like another and there were no nights to separate them because she never slept any more.
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As I lay on my back in bed staring up at the blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger until I felt my eardrums would burst with it.
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I had hoped, at my departure, I would feel sure and knowledgeable about everything that lay ahead -- after all, I had been analyzed. Instead, all I could see were question marks.
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I do not fear it: I have been there.
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One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.
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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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I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.
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I am disabused of all faith, and see too clearly.
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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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Not being perfect hurts.
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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off.
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Talking about my fears to others feeds it.
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