Quote

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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Don't let the wicked city get you down.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?
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When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.
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I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.
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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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I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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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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It's the living, the eating, the sleeping that everyone needs. Ideas don't matter so much after all. My three best friends are Catholic. I can't see their beliefs, but I can see the things they love to do on earth. When you come right down to it, I do believe in the freedom of the individual.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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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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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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Sometimes I feel like I'm not solid. I'm hollow. There's nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence.
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The moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, white and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
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So I kiss him, and there is the great dark sea ahead.
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I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.
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Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.
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