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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I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
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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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If I have a dry spell ... I wait and live harder, eyes, ears, and heart open, and when the productive time comes, it is that much richer.
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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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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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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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Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person
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Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.
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I do not know who I am tonight.
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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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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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The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone. She is used to this sort of thing. Her blacks crackle and drag.
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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 dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.
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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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The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed.
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A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.
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There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.
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And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness
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So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.
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