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Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.

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
Sick
Lying
Blooms
Fever
Dry
Sea

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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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I used to pray to recover you.
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If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
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Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.
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But I am I now and so many other millions are so irretrievably their own special variety of 'I' that I can hardly bear to think of it. I: how firm a letter how reassuring the three strokes: one vertical, proud and assertive, and then the two short horizontal lines in quick, smug succession. The pen scratching on the paper…I…I…I…I…I…I.
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I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free.
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It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.
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To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.
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I am what I feel and think and do.
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No day is safe from news of you.
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I think that as far as language goes I'm an American, I'm afraid, my accent is American, my way of talk is an American way of talk, I'm an old-fashioned American. That's probably one of the reasons why I'm in England now and why I'll always stay in England.
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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.
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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.
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I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
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I must say that I am not very genteel and I feel that gentility has a stranglehold: the neatness, the wonderful tidiness, which is so evident everywhere in England is perhaps more dangerous than it would appear on the surface.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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I am not cruel, only truthful.
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Tomorrow I will curse the dawn, but there will be other, earlier nights, and the dawns will be no longer hell laid out in alarms and raw bells and sirens.
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