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I think I may well be a Jew.

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
Thinking
Jew
May
Wells
Well
Think

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I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.
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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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The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.
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Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.
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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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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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They would grow old. They would forget me.
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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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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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I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.
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I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.
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What did my arms do before they held you?
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You walked in, laughing, tears welling confused, mingling in your throat. How can you be so many women to so many people, oh you strange girl?
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I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
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It is best to meet in a cul-de-sac, A palace of velvet With windows of mirrors. There one is safe, There are no family photographs, No rings through the nose, no cries.
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I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.
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When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.
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I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.
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If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
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