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If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.

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
Word
Song
Substituted
Inspirational
Nearer
Truth
Lust
Come
Feminism
Would
Classic
Love
Popular
Songs

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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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It is best to meet in a cul-de-sac, A palace of velvet With windows of mirrors. There one is safe, There are no family photographs, No rings through the nose, no cries.
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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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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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This seemed a dreary and wasted life for a girl with fifteen years of straight A's, but I knew that's what marriage was like, because cook and clean and wash was just what Buddy Willard's mother did from morning till night, and she was the wife of a university professor and had been a private school teacher herself.
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The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.
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I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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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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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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You ask me why I spend my life writing? Do I find entertainment? Is it worthwhile? Above all, does it pay? If not, then, is there a reason?... I write only because there is a voice within me. That will not be still.
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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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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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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.
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I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.
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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 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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Then I thought, No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.
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