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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.

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
Among
Leans
Upright
Sky

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I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates. He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greek movie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined it for both of us.
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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 think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.
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If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.
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I am myself. That is not enough.
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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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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.
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I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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Don't let the wicked city get you down.
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I have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.
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I like people, but to learn about one individual always appeals to me more than anything.
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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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The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.
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It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.
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Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?
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Winter is for women The woman still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanish walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.
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What I want back is what I was Before the bed, before the knife, Before the brooch-pin and the salve Fixed me in this parenthesis Horses fluent in the wind, A place, a time gone out of mind.
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I felt very low. I had been unmasked only that morning by Jay Cee herself, and I felt now that all the uncomfortable suspicions I had about myself were coming true. After nineteen years of running after good marks and prizes and grants of one sort and another, I was letting up, slowing down, dropping clean out of race.
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Is anyone anywhere happy?
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It never occurred to me to say no.
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