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I knew you'd decide to be all right again.

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
Decide
Knew
Right

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I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.
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See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
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It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.
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I hadn't, at the last moment, felt like washing off the two diagonal lines of dried blood that marked my cheeks. They seemed touching, and rather spectacular, and I thought I would carry them around with me, like the relic of a dead lover, till they wore off of their own accord.
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Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it, or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.
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A man's world is different from a woman's world and a man's emotions are different from a woman's emotions and only marriage can bring the two different sets of emotions together properly.
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Let's face it: I'm scared, scared and frozen. First, I guess, I'm afraid for myself...the old primitive urge for survival. It's getting so I live every moment with terrible intensity.
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The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, This is what it is to be happy.
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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 felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
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And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
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I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.
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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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I feel that very strongly: having been an academic, having been tempted by the invitation to stay on to become a Ph.D., a professor, and all that, one side of me certainly does respect all disciplines, as long as they don't ossify.
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And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.
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It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles.
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