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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.

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
Comfort
Numbers
Within
Hate
Able
Downstairs
Torn
Naturally
Seek

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I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.
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Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.
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It's the living, the eating, the sleeping that everyone needs. Ideas don't matter so much after all. My three best friends are Catholic. I can't see their beliefs, but I can see the things they love to do on earth. When you come right down to it, I do believe in the freedom of the individual.
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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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I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
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I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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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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To look at her, you might not guess that inside she is laughing and crying, at her own stupidities and luckiness, and at the strange enigmatic ways of the world which she will spend lifetime trying to learn and understand.
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Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
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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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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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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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I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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I could never be a complete scholar or a complete housewife ora completewriter: Imustcombinea little of all, and thereby be imperfect in all.
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I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead I lift my eyes and all is born again.
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Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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I've got to have something. I want to stop it all, the whole monumental grotesque joke, before it's too late. But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.
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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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