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How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotions, my feeling, by turning it into print?

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
Words
Piece
Justifying
Feelings
Paper
Keen
Tell
Pieces
Bob
Life
Emotion
Transformed
Hurt
Streams
Beauty
Print
Feeling
Turning
Happiness
Emotions
Wrenched

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The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.
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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
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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 am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.
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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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I feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.
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I must say that I am not very genteel and I feel that gentility has a stranglehold: the neatness, the wonderful tidiness, which is so evident everywhere in England is perhaps more dangerous than it would appear on the surface.
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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)
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Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.
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I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I could respect him.
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I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.
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I decided I would put off the novel until I had gone to Europe and had a lover, and that I would never learn a word of shorthand. If I never learned shorthand I would never have to use it.
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There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.
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What I didn't say was that each time I picked up a German dictionary or a German book, the very sight of those dense, black, barbed-wire letters made my mind shut like a clam.
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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.
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I am what I feel and think and do.
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I had hoped, at my departure, I would feel sure and knowledgeable about everything that lay ahead -- after all, I had been analyzed. Instead, all I could see were question marks.
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