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There was a beautiful time.

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
Time
Beautiful

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I've got to have something. I want to stop it all, the whole monumental grotesque joke, before it's too late. But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.
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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 am what I feel and think and do.
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I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
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If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
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I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.
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Not being perfect hurts.
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I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
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I opened the door and blinked out into the bright hall. I had the impression it wasn't night and it wasn't day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end.
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To look at her, you might not guess that inside she is laughing and crying, at her own stupidities and luckiness, and at the strange enigmatic ways of the world which she will spend lifetime trying to learn and understand.
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we walk the plank with strangers.
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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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Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.
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Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?
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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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God, it was good to let go, let the tight mask fall off, and the bewildered, chaotic fragments pour out. It was the purge, the catharsis.
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It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.
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But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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