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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.

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
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Forgetfulness
Numb
Cover
Landscape
Snow
Maybe
Cadavers
Part
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I'm about fifty years behind as far as my preferences go and I must say that the poets who excite me most are the Americans. There are very few contemporary English poets that I admire.
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I think I may well be a Jew.
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Talking about my fears to others feeds it.
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The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed.
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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.
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I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.
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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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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.
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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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I must say that I am not very genteel and I feel that gentility has a stranglehold: the neatness, the wonderful tidiness, which is so evident everywhere in England is perhaps more dangerous than it would appear on the surface.
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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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Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.
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we walk the plank with strangers.
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…beating time along the edge of thought.
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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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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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