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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.
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
Way
Understanding
Guess
Stupidities
World
Learn
Spend
Enigmatic
Understand
Lucky
Guessing
Women
Laughing
Crying
Look
Inside
Laughed
Might
Strange
Stupidity
Looks
Learning
Cry
Trying
Ways
Lifetime
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
Then I thought, No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.
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Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.
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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.
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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.
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You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you.
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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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In spite of everything, I still have my good old sense of humor.
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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 like people too much or not at all. I've got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.
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I had imagined a kind, ugly, intuitive man looking up and say, 'Ah!' in an encouraging way, as if he could see something I couldn't, and then I would find words to tell him how I was so scared, as if I were being stuffed farther and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out.
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A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage.
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Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it, or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.
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After all, we are nothing more or less than we choose to reveal.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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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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You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.
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Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.
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My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.
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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 need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.
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