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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
Leans
Upright
Sky
Among

More quotes by Sylvia Plath

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I don't know what started me, I just wrote poetry from the time was quite small. I guess I liked nursery rhymes and I guess I thought I could do the same thing. I wrote my first poem, my first published poem, when I was eight-and-a-half years old. It came out in The Boston Traveller and from then on, I suppose, I've been a bit of a professional.
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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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A skeptic, I would ask for consistency first of all.
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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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..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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But everybody has exactly the same smiling frightened face, with the look that says: I'm important. If you only get to know me, you will see how important I am. Look into my eyes. Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.
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Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?
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At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
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How we need another soul to cling to.
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The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone. She is used to this sort of thing. Her blacks crackle and drag.
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And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
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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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A psychiatrist is the god of our age. But they cost money.
Sylvia Plath
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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
Sylvia Plath
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
Sylvia Plath
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I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
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A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.
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My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.
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One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.
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They would grow old. They would forget me.
Sylvia Plath