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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.

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
Blue
Anything
Look
Looks
Men
Outfit

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Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.
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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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That’s one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
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To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.
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I am not cruel, only truthful.
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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrifying, like madness, being tortured...with an informed and intelligent mind.
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Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.
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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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You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.
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It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)
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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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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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I have this demon who wants me to run away screaming if I am going to be flawed, fallible. It wants me to think I'm so good I must be perfect. Or nothing. I am, on the contrary, something: a being who gets tired, has shyness to fight, has more trouble than most facing people easily.
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I am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.
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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 like people too much or not at all.
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When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.
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I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.
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