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

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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline, you've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space that you've just got to turn away all the peripherals.
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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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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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We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.
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I didn't really see why people should look at me. Plenty of people looked queerer than I did.
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The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.
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Why do we electrocute men for murdering an individual and then pin a purple heart on them for mass slaughter of someone arbitrarily labeled “enemy?
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I am sure there are things that can't be cured by a good bath but I can't think of one.
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I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
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I felt wise and cynical as all hell.
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I must say that I am not very genteel and I feel that gentility has a stranglehold: the neatness, the wonderful tidiness, which is so evident everywhere in England is perhaps more dangerous than it would appear on the surface.
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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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God, if ever I have come close to wanting to commit suicide, it is now, with the groggy sleepless blood dragging through my veins, and the air thick and gray with rain ... I fell into bed again this morning, begging for sleep, withdrawing into the dark, warm, fetid escape from action, from responsibility. No good.
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I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
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Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.
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I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.
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I am too pure for you or anyone.
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I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off.
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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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I am myself. That is not enough.
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