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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.

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
Study
America
Must
Writing
People
Attics
Secretly
Studies

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And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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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 must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
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God, if ever I have come close to wanting to commit suicide, it is now, with the groggy sleepless blood dragging through my veins, and the air thick and gray with rain ... I fell into bed again this morning, begging for sleep, withdrawing into the dark, warm, fetid escape from action, from responsibility. No good.
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But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.
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And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ
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I can't think logically about who I am or where I am going. I have been very ecstatic, horribly depressed, shocked, elated, enlightened, and enervated.
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A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage.
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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 fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly, as the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody I have nothing to do with explosions.
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I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!
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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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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.
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