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

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Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.
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What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.
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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness
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I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I could respect him.
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I am too pure for you or anyone.
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I lay in that tub on the seventeenth floor of this hotel for-women-only, high up over the jazz and push of New York, for near unto an hour, and I felt myself growing pure again. I don't believe in baptism or the waters of Jordan or anything like that, but I guess I feel about a hot bath the way those religious people feel about holy water.
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Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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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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What did my arms do before they held you?
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Character is fate.
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So learn about life. Cut yourself a big slice with the silver server, a big slice of pie. Open your eyes. Let life happen.
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The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his mantel with a date engraved on it like the date on a tombstone.
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