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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.

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
Thought
Might
Mind
Coolly
Formed
Kill
Flower

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Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.
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At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
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I am sure there are things that can't be cured by a good bath but I can't think of one.
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In this particular tub, two knees jut up like icebergs, while minute brown hairs rise on arms and legs in a fringe of kelp green soap navigates the tidal slosh of seas breaking on legendary beaches in faith we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.
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I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.
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I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.
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See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
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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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No day is safe from news of you.
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With that strange knowing that comes over me, like a clairvoyance, I know that I am sure of myself and my enormous and alarmingly timeless love for you which will always be.
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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 started adding up all the things I couldn't do.
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I am myself. That is not enough.
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We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.
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To learn and think to think and live to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.
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Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.
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I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.
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But I am I now and so many other millions are so irretrievably their own special variety of 'I' that I can hardly bear to think of it. I: how firm a letter how reassuring the three strokes: one vertical, proud and assertive, and then the two short horizontal lines in quick, smug succession. The pen scratching on the paper…I…I…I…I…I…I.
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Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
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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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