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It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.

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
Would
Think
Wash
Thinking
Depression
Silly
Seemed
Tired
Next
Made

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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.
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I think I may well be a Jew.
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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.
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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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I may have made a straight A in physics, but I was panic-struck. Physics made me sick the whole time I learned it.
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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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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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What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.
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God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.
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With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start.
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I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.
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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline, you've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space that you've just got to turn away all the peripherals.
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I felt very low. I had been unmasked only that morning by Jay Cee herself, and I felt now that all the uncomfortable suspicions I had about myself were coming true. After nineteen years of running after good marks and prizes and grants of one sort and another, I was letting up, slowing down, dropping clean out of race.
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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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One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.
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Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.
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You walked in, laughing, tears welling confused, mingling in your throat. How can you be so many women to so many people, oh you strange girl?
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Winter is for women The woman still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanish walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.
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