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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
Attics
Secretly
Studies
Study
America
Must
Writing
People
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
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I am not cruel, only truthful.
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I've got to have something. I want to stop it all, the whole monumental grotesque joke, before it's too late. But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates. He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greek movie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined it for both of us.
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I like people too much or not at all.
Sylvia Plath
I felt wise and cynical as all hell.
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And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.
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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
Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.
Sylvia Plath
Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.
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I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.
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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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The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone. She is used to this sort of thing. Her blacks crackle and drag.
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I hurl my heart to halt his pace.
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I talk to God but the sky is empty.
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I saw the years of my life spaced along a road in the form of telephone poles threaded together by wires. I counted one, two, three... nineteen telephone poles, and then the wires dangled into space, and try as I would, I couldn't see a single pole beyond the nineteenth.
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I must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.
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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.
Sylvia Plath
God, it was good to let go, let the tight mask fall off, and the bewildered, chaotic fragments pour out. It was the purge, the catharsis.
Sylvia Plath
I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.
Sylvia Plath
