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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
Within
Hate
Able
Downstairs
Torn
Naturally
Seek
Comfort
Numbers

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And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
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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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And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
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If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.
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I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I could respect him.
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Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his mantel with a date engraved on it like the date on a tombstone.
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I think I may well be a Jew.
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I think if I had done anything else I would like to have been a doctor. This is the sort of polar opposition to being a writer, I suppose.
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I must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.
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For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.
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I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
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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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I do not love I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.
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What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid.
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I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.
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If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
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Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn.
Sylvia Plath