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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.

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
Would
Thirds
Slipped
Suddenly
Intervals
Door
Hall
Doors
Halls
Wasn
Opened
Night
Bright
Lurid
Ends
Impression
Blinked
Never
Third
Interval

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I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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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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The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm
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I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.
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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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I must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.
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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 just got to turn away all the peripherals.
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Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
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Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.
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Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person
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I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, This is what it is to be happy.
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I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
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We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.
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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
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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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And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.
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Not being perfect hurts.
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..I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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