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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.

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
Imagination
Fear
Death
Think
Thinking

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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 am made, crudely, for success.
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Tomorrow I will curse the dawn, but there will be other, earlier nights, and the dawns will be no longer hell laid out in alarms and raw bells and sirens.
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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.
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I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.
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I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.
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You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.
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...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 have stitched life into me like a rare organ
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Is there no way out of the mind?
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We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.
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That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. Save them for my funeral, I'd said.
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If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
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I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
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I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
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A skeptic, I would ask for consistency first of all.
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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.
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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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After all, we are nothing more or less than we choose to reveal.
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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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