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I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.

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
Accused
Arms
Agony
Hate
Runs
Black
Red
Conceives
Running
Held
Agonies
Dream
Garden
Massacres
Ends
Toward
Fearing
Love
Hating
World
Drink

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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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You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.
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If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.
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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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Ash, ash —- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
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Outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass.
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I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.
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Ironically, Henry James' biography comforts me & I long to make known to him his posthumous reputation he wrote, in pain, gave all his life (which is more than I could think of doing I have Ted, will have children but few friends) & the critics insulted & mocked him, readers didn't read him.
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