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Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses.

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
Roses
Caves
Hung
Rose
Love
Cave

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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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Is anyone anywhere happy?
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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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Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.
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But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.
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You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you.
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I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.
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I want, I think, to be omniscient. I think I would like to call myself the girl who wanted to be God. Yet if I were not in this body where would I be-perhaps I am destined to be classified and qualified. But, oh, I cry out against it.
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…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.
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At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!
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I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.
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I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.
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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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I saw the years of my life spaced along a road in the form of telephone poles threaded together by wires. I counted one, two, three... nineteen telephone poles, and then the wires dangled into space, and try as I would, I couldn't see a single pole beyond the nineteenth.
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You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.
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I think I may well be a Jew.
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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 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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