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I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
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
Winter
Together
Feel
Feels
Banging
Shaking
Teeth
Bones
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
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Why honey, don't you want to get dressed? My mother took care never to tell me to do anything. She would only reason with me sweetly, like one intelligent, mature person with another. It's almost three in the afternoon. I'm writing a novel, I said. I haven't got time to change into this and change into that.
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I need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.
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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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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.
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we walk the plank with strangers.
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I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
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The box is only temporary.
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…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.
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Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?
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A skeptic, I would ask for consistency first of all.
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What I didn't say was that each time I picked up a German dictionary or a German book, the very sight of those dense, black, barbed-wire letters made my mind shut like a clam.
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Is there no way out of the mind?
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I felt wise and cynical as all hell.
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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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Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.
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Don't let the wicked city get you down.
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... stop trying to get me to write about 'decent courageous people' -- read the Ladies' Home Journal for those! ... I believe in going through and facing the worst, not hiding from it.
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