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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
Identity
Head
Without
Aches
Faceless
Ache

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…'It always has to end, doesn't it? We always have to separate.' 'Yes,' I said. He was insistent, 'But it doesn't always have to be that way. We could be together some day for always.' 'Oh, no,' I told him, wondering if he knew it was all over. 'We keep running till we die. We separate, get further apart, till we are dead.
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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 feel that very strongly: having been an academic, having been tempted by the invitation to stay on to become a Ph.D., a professor, and all that, one side of me certainly does respect all disciplines, as long as they don't ossify.
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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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Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.
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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone. She is used to this sort of thing. Her blacks crackle and drag.
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Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.
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For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.
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…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.
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We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.
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I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defensless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.
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She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.
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The hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted & spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.
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I am not cruel, only truthful.
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The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.
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You ask me why I spend my life writing? Do I find entertainment? Is it worthwhile? Above all, does it pay? If not, then, is there a reason?... I write only because there is a voice within me. That will not be still.
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