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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
Part
Insulin
Kind
Thermometers
Like
Forgetfulness
Numb
Cover
Landscape
Snow
Maybe
Cadavers

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Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.
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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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This seemed a dreary and wasted life for a girl with fifteen years of straight A's, but I knew that's what marriage was like, because cook and clean and wash was just what Buddy Willard's mother did from morning till night, and she was the wife of a university professor and had been a private school teacher herself.
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And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.
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I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.
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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—— The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
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I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.
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Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: 'I'll go take a hot bath.
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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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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What I hate is the thought of being under a man's thumb, I had told Doctor Nolan. A man doesn't have a worry in the world, while I've got a baby hanging over my head like a big stick, to keep me in line.
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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!
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I am what I feel and think and do.
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Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.
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The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm
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There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.
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I hadn't, at the last moment, felt like washing off the two diagonal lines of dried blood that marked my cheeks. They seemed touching, and rather spectacular, and I thought I would carry them around with me, like the relic of a dead lover, till they wore off of their own accord.
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I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.
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