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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.

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
Wants
Security
Future
Shoots
Woman
Arrow
Place
Mate
Men
Arrows
Mates
Infinite

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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.
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I am myself. That is not enough.
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I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I could respect him.
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There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.
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A psychiatrist is the god of our age. But they cost money.
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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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I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.
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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
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We know a thing by its opposite corollary hot by having experienced cold good by having decided what is bad love by hate.
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How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotions, my feeling, by turning it into print?
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Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.
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Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
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..I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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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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Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.
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What I cannot forgive is dishonesty - and no matter what, or how hard, I would rather know the truth of which I today had such a clear & devastating vision from his mouth than hear foul evasions, blurrings and rattiness.
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