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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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Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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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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I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.
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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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I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
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I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.
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I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.
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I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates. He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greek movie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined it for both of us.
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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.
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So I began to think maybe it was true that when you were married and had children it was like being brainwashed, and afterward you went about as numb as a slave in a totalitarian state.
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And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
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It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles.
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All the heat and fear had purged itself. I felt surprisingly at peace. The bell jar hung suspended a few feet above my head. I was open to the circulating air.
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It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)
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I could never be a complete scholar or a complete housewife ora completewriter: Imustcombinea little of all, and thereby be imperfect in all.
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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.
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At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
Sylvia Plath