Quote

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.

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
Littles
Name
Imagined
Hitching
Little
Saying
Makeup
Ordeal
Firsts
Courses
Reaching
Ordeals
First
Course
Table
Waist
Children
Names
Tables
Elbows
Always
Child
Awful
Radiant
Whatever
Hair
Delivery
White
Dead
Smiling

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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
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I like people too much or not at all. I've got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.
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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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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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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his mantel with a date engraved on it like the date on a tombstone.
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To look at her, you might not guess that inside she is laughing and crying, at her own stupidities and luckiness, and at the strange enigmatic ways of the world which she will spend lifetime trying to learn and understand.
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I can't think logically about who I am or where I am going. I have been very ecstatic, horribly depressed, shocked, elated, enlightened, and enervated.
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Perhaps you considered yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other. Thirty years now I have labored To dredge the silt from your throat. I am none the wiser.
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Is anyone anywhere happy?
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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.
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If every soldier refused to take arms ... there would be no wars but no one has the courage to be the first to live according to Christ and Socrates, because in a world of opportunists they would be martyred.
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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
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I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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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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The hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted & spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.
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Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.
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It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)
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