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

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I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.
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I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.
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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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For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.
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But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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…beating time along the edge of thought.
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Look at that ugly dead mask here and do not forget it. It is a chalk mask with dead dry poison behind it, like the death angel. It is what I was this fall, and what I never want to be again. The pouting disconsolate mouth, the flat, bored, numb, expressionless eyes: symptoms of the foul decay within.
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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
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You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you.
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A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.
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Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.
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