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Don't let the wicked city get you down.

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
Wicked
City
Cities

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Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.
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Outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass.
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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 box is only temporary.
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I can't think logically about who I am or where I am going. I have been very ecstatic, horribly depressed, shocked, elated, enlightened, and enervated.
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I am myself. That is not enough.
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I do not love I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.
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I am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.
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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed.
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I may have made a straight A in physics, but I was panic-struck. Physics made me sick the whole time I learned it.
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It is best to meet in a cul-de-sac, A palace of velvet With windows of mirrors. There one is safe, There are no family photographs, No rings through the nose, no cries.
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I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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I am too pure for you or anyone.
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I had hoped, at my departure, I would feel sure and knowledgeable about everything that lay ahead -- after all, I had been analyzed. Instead, all I could see were question marks.
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How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotions, my feeling, by turning it into print?
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I dream too much, work too little.
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because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
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Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.
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