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What I hate is the thought of being under a man's thumb, I had told Doctor Nolan. A man doesn't have a worry in the world, while I've got a baby hanging over my head like a big stick, to keep me in line.

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
World
Lines
Stick
Bigs
Sticks
Hate
Doctors
Keep
Line
Doesn
Baby
Thumb
Thought
Told
Thumbs
Men
Worry
Hanging
Like
Head
Doctor

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Tomorrow I will curse the dawn, but there will be other, earlier nights, and the dawns will be no longer hell laid out in alarms and raw bells and sirens.
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I have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have.
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We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.
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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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Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.
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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.
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I felt dumb and subdued. Every time I tried to concentrate, my mind glided off, like a skater, into a large empty space, and pirouetted there, absently.
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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.
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I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.
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The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.
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I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
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I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.
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Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing- singing, laughing, learning.
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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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I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly, as the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody I have nothing to do with explosions.
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Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it
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I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.
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With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start.
Sylvia Plath