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When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, lying in the tup and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank into sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.

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
Gaudy
Would
Sleep
Till
Sank
Clear
Philosopher
Dies
Surface
Poppies
Lying
Warm
Wrists
Water
Flower
Bath
Easy
Asked
Baths
Redness
Thought
Open
Roman
Flush
Wanted
Seeing
Veins

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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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I'm about fifty years behind as far as my preferences go and I must say that the poets who excite me most are the Americans. There are very few contemporary English poets that I admire.
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The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.
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Is anyone anywhere happy?
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But I am I now and so many other millions are so irretrievably their own special variety of 'I' that I can hardly bear to think of it. I: how firm a letter how reassuring the three strokes: one vertical, proud and assertive, and then the two short horizontal lines in quick, smug succession. The pen scratching on the paper…I…I…I…I…I…I.
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But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.
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If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
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I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I could respect him.
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Look at that ugly dead mask here and do not forget it. It is a chalk mask with dead dry poison behind it, like the death angel. It is what I was this fall, and what I never want to be again. The pouting disconsolate mouth, the flat, bored, numb, expressionless eyes: symptoms of the foul decay within.
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I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off.
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Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.
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I like people too much or not at all. I've got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.
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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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Is there no way out of the mind?
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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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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.
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If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.
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To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.
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because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
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