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And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.

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
Without
Aches
Faceless
Ache
Identity
Head

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The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
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Why honey, don't you want to get dressed? My mother took care never to tell me to do anything. She would only reason with me sweetly, like one intelligent, mature person with another. It's almost three in the afternoon. I'm writing a novel, I said. I haven't got time to change into this and change into that.
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And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.
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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.
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I don't know what started me, I just wrote poetry from the time was quite small. I guess I liked nursery rhymes and I guess I thought I could do the same thing. I wrote my first poem, my first published poem, when I was eight-and-a-half years old. It came out in The Boston Traveller and from then on, I suppose, I've been a bit of a professional.
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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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I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
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I think that as far as language goes I'm an American, I'm afraid, my accent is American, my way of talk is an American way of talk, I'm an old-fashioned American. That's probably one of the reasons why I'm in England now and why I'll always stay in England.
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If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.
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What I want back is what I was Before the bed, before the knife, Before the brooch-pin and the salve Fixed me in this parenthesis Horses fluent in the wind, A place, a time gone out of mind.
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A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion an insight like the flight of birds.
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Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.
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Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?
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Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.
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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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But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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Joy:show joy & enjoy: then others will be joyful.
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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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I can't think logically about who I am or where I am going. I have been very ecstatic, horribly depressed, shocked, elated, enlightened, and enervated.
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