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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
Cave
Roses
Caves
Hung
Rose
Love

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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
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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.
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When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It's gone forever.
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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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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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What I hate is the thought of being under a man's thumb, I had told Doctor Nolan. A man doesn't have a worry in the world, while I've got a baby hanging over my head like a big stick, to keep me in line.
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I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.
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Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it.
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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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I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
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I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.
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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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I am disabused of all faith, and see too clearly.
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I opened the door and blinked out into the bright hall. I had the impression it wasn't night and it wasn't day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end.
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I collect men with interesting names.
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I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.
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I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn’t taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallowers’ sword and made me feel powerful and godlike.
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If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.
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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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A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion an insight like the flight of birds.
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