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No, I won't try to escape myself by losing myself in artificial chatter 'Did you have a nice vacation?' 'Oh, yes, and you?' I'll stay here and try to pin that loneliness down.

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
Loneliness
Losing
Stay
Nice
Chatter
Trying
Pins
Vacation
Artificial
Escape

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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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I like people, but to learn about one individual always appeals to me more than anything.
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Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.
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And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
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No day is safe from news of you.
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I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.
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When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, lying in the tup and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank into sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.
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A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage.
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If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.
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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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And if you have no past or future which, after all, is all that the present is made of, why then you may as well dispose of the empty shell of present and commit suicide.
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I wonder why I don't go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.
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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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They would grow old. They would forget me.
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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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The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.
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I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.
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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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I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
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