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...we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.

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
Real
Mad
Fabulous
Till
Sail
Sacred
Board
Among
Ship
Shall
Imagined
Stars
Boards
Death
Islands
Shatters
Makes
Ships
Wildly

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Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.
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And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
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I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.
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Is there no way out of the mind?
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I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see, I swallow immediately. Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful.
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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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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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Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.
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I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
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I said: I must remember this, being small.
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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrifying, like madness, being tortured...with an informed and intelligent mind.
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Pretty soon, the only doubt in my mind was the precise time and method of committing suicide. The only alternative I could see was an eternity of hell for the rest of my life in a mental hospital, and I was going to use my last ounce of free choice and choose a quick clean ending.
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The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.
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Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
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Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his mantel with a date engraved on it like the date on a tombstone.
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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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If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.
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I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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