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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
Dry
Sea
Sick
Lying
Blooms
Fever

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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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I knew you'd decide to be all right again.
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I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.
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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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It never occurred to me to say no.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defensless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.
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All the heat and fear had purged itself. I felt surprisingly at peace. The bell jar hung suspended a few feet above my head. I was open to the circulating air.
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I have this demon who wants me to run away screaming if I am going to be flawed, fallible. It wants me to think I'm so good I must be perfect. Or nothing. I am, on the contrary, something: a being who gets tired, has shyness to fight, has more trouble than most facing people easily.
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…beating time along the edge of thought.
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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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See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
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Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.
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I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.
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I had always imagined myself hitching up on to my elbows on the delivery table after it was all over - dead white, of course, with no makeup and from the awful ordeal, but smiling and radiant, with my hair down to my waist, and reaching out for my first little squirmy child and saying its name, whatever it was.
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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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For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.
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Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.
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Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.
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