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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.

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
Thinking
Write
Better
Live
Look
Skis
Looks
Jealous
Writing
Draw
Love
Deeply
Think
Draws

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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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Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it.
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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates. He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greek movie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined it for both of us.
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Look at that ugly dead mask here and do not forget it. It is a chalk mask with dead dry poison behind it, like the death angel. It is what I was this fall, and what I never want to be again. The pouting disconsolate mouth, the flat, bored, numb, expressionless eyes: symptoms of the foul decay within.
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The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.
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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.
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I am still so naïve I know pretty much what I like and dislike but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?
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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.
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Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
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After all, we are nothing more or less than we choose to reveal.
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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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There is more than one good way to drown.
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There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.
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Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.
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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 felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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I am myself. That is not enough.
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I think I am worthwhile just because I have optical nerves and can try to put down what they perceive. What a fool!
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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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