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The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.

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
Ever
Mad
Everything
Remembered
Play
Stuck
Mind
Read
People
Else
Persons
Person
Reason
Flew

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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 have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have.
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If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.
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What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid.
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I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.
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I hurl my heart to halt his pace.
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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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Frustrated? Yes. Why? Because it is impossible for me to be God — or the universal woman-and-man — or anything much. I am what I feel and think and do. I want to express my being as fully as I can because I somewhere picked up the idea that I could justify my being alive that way.
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Perhaps you considered yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other. Thirty years now I have labored To dredge the silt from your throat. I am none the wiser.
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Why honey, don't you want to get dressed? My mother took care never to tell me to do anything. She would only reason with me sweetly, like one intelligent, mature person with another. It's almost three in the afternoon. I'm writing a novel, I said. I haven't got time to change into this and change into that.
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I had imagined a kind, ugly, intuitive man looking up and say, 'Ah!' in an encouraging way, as if he could see something I couldn't, and then I would find words to tell him how I was so scared, as if I were being stuffed farther and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out.
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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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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.
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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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And if you have no past or future which, after all, is all that the present is made of, why then you may as well dispose of the empty shell of present and commit suicide.
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Talking about my fears to others feeds it.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion an insight like the flight of birds.
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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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