Quote

Ash, ash —- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

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
Herr
Flesh
Ashes
Lucifer
Air
Wedding
Poke
Gold
Ring
Stir
Hair
Cake
Beware
Nothing
Rings
Men
Red
Bone
Like
Bones
Soap
Rise
Filling

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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline, you've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space that you've just got to turn away all the peripherals.
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I do not love I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.
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Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing- singing, laughing, learning.
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Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses.
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So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.
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What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid.
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I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.
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And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
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I need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible, someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up in shuddering horror and fear of the cement tunnels leading down to the shock room, to comfort me with an assurance that no psychiatrist can quite manage to convey.
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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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There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.
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I decided I would put off the novel until I had gone to Europe and had a lover, and that I would never learn a word of shorthand. If I never learned shorthand I would never have to use it.
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The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.
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And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.
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A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion an insight like the flight of birds.
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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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Dancing is the normal prelude to intercourse.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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