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I am still so naïve I know pretty much what I like and dislike but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?

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
Girl
Stills
Fragmentary
Still
Dislike
Much
Passionate
Like
Please
Pretty
Maybe
Asks

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What is so real as the cry of a child?
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I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free.
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I had imagined a kind, ugly, intuitive man looking up and say, 'Ah!' in an encouraging way, as if he could see something I couldn't, and then I would find words to tell him how I was so scared, as if I were being stuffed farther and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out.
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There was a beautiful time.
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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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A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.
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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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I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.
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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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In spite of everything, I still have my good old sense of humor.
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I do not fear it: I have been there.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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I felt wise and cynical as all hell.
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Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.
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I used to pray to recover you.
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The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
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