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I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.

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
Feeling
Anyone
Feelings
Care
Mutual
Obviously
Quite

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A psychiatrist is the god of our age. But they cost money.
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No day is safe from news of you.
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Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.
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I had imagined a kind, ugly, intuitive man looking up and say, 'Ah!' in an encouraging way, as if he could see something I couldn't, and then I would find words to tell him how I was so scared, as if I were being stuffed farther and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out.
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I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
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I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
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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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Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.
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I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
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I have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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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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The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.
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God, it was good to let go, let the tight mask fall off, and the bewildered, chaotic fragments pour out. It was the purge, the catharsis.
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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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The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm
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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
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There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
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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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