Quote

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.

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
World
Master
Refuses
Refuse
Ordered
Draws
Barren
Masters
Selected
Physical
Horns
Words
Sickness
Recreated
Feel
Draw
Oddly
Feels
Victim
Arranged

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I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.
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My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing.
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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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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 am made, crudely, for success.
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I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
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Your room is not your prison. You are.
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I like people too much or not at all.
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There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.
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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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The hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted & spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.
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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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I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.
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They would grow old. They would forget me.
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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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One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.
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I have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.
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In spite of everything, I still have my good old sense of humor.
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