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I said: I must remember this, being small.

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
Small
Remember
Must

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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ
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We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.
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I collect men with interesting names.
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Don't let the wicked city get you down.
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Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
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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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But I am I now and so many other millions are so irretrievably their own special variety of 'I' that I can hardly bear to think of it. I: how firm a letter how reassuring the three strokes: one vertical, proud and assertive, and then the two short horizontal lines in quick, smug succession. The pen scratching on the paper…I…I…I…I…I…I.
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What I cannot forgive is dishonesty - and no matter what, or how hard, I would rather know the truth of which I today had such a clear & devastating vision from his mouth than hear foul evasions, blurrings and rattiness.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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Ash, ash —- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
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If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.
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Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.
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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
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I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.
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There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.
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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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Is there no way out of the mind?
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I like people too much or not at all.
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I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print, the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig-tree.
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You ask me why I spend my life writing? Do I find entertainment? Is it worthwhile? Above all, does it pay? If not, then, is there a reason?... I write only because there is a voice within me. That will not be still.
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