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I didn't really see why people should look at me. Plenty of people looked queerer than I did.

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
Looked
Didn
Look
Looks
Really
People
Plenty

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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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The box is only temporary.
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As I lay on my back in bed staring up at the blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger until I felt my eardrums would burst with it.
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I have this demon who wants me to run away screaming if I am going to be flawed, fallible. It wants me to think I'm so good I must be perfect. Or nothing. I am, on the contrary, something: a being who gets tired, has shyness to fight, has more trouble than most facing people easily.
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Not being perfect hurts.
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I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.
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I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
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because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
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I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.
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I am myself. That is not enough.
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I had always imagined myself hitching up on to my elbows on the delivery table after it was all over - dead white, of course, with no makeup and from the awful ordeal, but smiling and radiant, with my hair down to my waist, and reaching out for my first little squirmy child and saying its name, whatever it was.
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I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
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And you grit your teeth, despising yourself for your tremulous sensitivity, and wondering how human beings can suffer their individualities to be mercilessly crushed under a machinelike dictatorship, be it of industry, state or organization, all their lives long.
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I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
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A psychiatrist is the god of our age. But they cost money.
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It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles.
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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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I feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.
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