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I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I could respect him.

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
Respect
Felt
Firsts
First
Must
Men
Slept
Intelligent

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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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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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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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I want to taste and glory in each day, and never be afraid to experience pain and never shut myself up in a numb core of nonfeeling, or stop questioning and criticizing life and take the easy way out. To learn and think: to think and live to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.
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Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.
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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
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I need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible, someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up in shuddering horror and fear of the cement tunnels leading down to the shock room, to comfort me with an assurance that no psychiatrist can quite manage to convey.
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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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I knew chemistry would be worse, because I'd seen a big card of the ninety-odd elements hung up in the chemistry lab, and all the perfectly good words like gold and silver and cobalt and aluminum were shortened to ugly abbreviations with different decimal numbers after them.
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I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
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I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.
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Your room is not your prison. You are.
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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
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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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I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
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