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I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print, the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig-tree.

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
Tree
Lines
Sleep
Bigs
Figs
Black
Crawl
Beautiful
Fence
Wanted
Print
Way
Green

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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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Ironically, Henry James' biography comforts me & I long to make known to him his posthumous reputation he wrote, in pain, gave all his life (which is more than I could think of doing I have Ted, will have children but few friends) & the critics insulted & mocked him, readers didn't read him.
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When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, lying in the tup and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank into sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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Character is fate.
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I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
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I knew you'd decide to be all right again.
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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrifying, like madness, being tortured...with an informed and intelligent mind.
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Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn.
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There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.
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A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage.
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Good to know that if I ever need attention all I have to do is die.
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Not being perfect hurts.
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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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If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.
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The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.
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I am myself. That is not enough.
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I must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.
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I used to pray to recover you.
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