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

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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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It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.
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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 hadn't, at the last moment, felt like washing off the two diagonal lines of dried blood that marked my cheeks. They seemed touching, and rather spectacular, and I thought I would carry them around with me, like the relic of a dead lover, till they wore off of their own accord.
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
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What I didn't say was that each time I picked up a German dictionary or a German book, the very sight of those dense, black, barbed-wire letters made my mind shut like a clam.
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I said: I must remember this, being small.
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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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Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
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But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.
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No, I won't try to escape myself by losing myself in artificial chatter 'Did you have a nice vacation?' 'Oh, yes, and you?' I'll stay here and try to pin that loneliness down.
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A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
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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 is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.
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Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it
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To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.
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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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Read widely of others' experiences, even if it'd be more comfortable to snuggle back in the comforting cotton-wool of blissful ignorance.
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We know a thing by its opposite corollary hot by having experienced cold good by having decided what is bad love by hate.
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