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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.

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
Look
Nothing
Looks
Forward
Couldn
Getting
Point

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When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It's gone forever.
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And you grit your teeth, despising yourself for your tremulous sensitivity, and wondering how human beings can suffer their individualities to be mercilessly crushed under a machinelike dictatorship, be it of industry, state or organization, all their lives long.
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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 felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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I want, I think, to be omniscient. I think I would like to call myself the girl who wanted to be God. Yet if I were not in this body where would I be-perhaps I am destined to be classified and qualified. But, oh, I cry out against it.
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I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.
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And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.
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But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
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I think that as far as language goes I'm an American, I'm afraid, my accent is American, my way of talk is an American way of talk, I'm an old-fashioned American. That's probably one of the reasons why I'm in England now and why I'll always stay in England.
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A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
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I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn’t taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallowers’ sword and made me feel powerful and godlike.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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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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Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
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With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start.
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Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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