Quote

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
Love
Pluck
Halt
Clock
Move
Moving
Makes
Find
Heart

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The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.
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I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.
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I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
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What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.
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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 have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
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I do not know who I am tonight.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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What I want back is what I was Before the bed, before the knife, Before the brooch-pin and the salve Fixed me in this parenthesis Horses fluent in the wind, A place, a time gone out of mind.
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I must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.
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How we need another soul to cling to.
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Sunday-the doctor's paradise! Doctors at country clubs, doctors at the seaside, doctors with mistresses, doctors with wives, doctors in church, doctors in yachts, doctors everywhere resolutely being people, not doctors.
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I am too pure for you or anyone.
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I think I am worthwhile just because I have optical nerves and can try to put down what they perceive. What a fool!
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Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.
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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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A psychiatrist is the god of our age. But they cost money.
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