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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
Trying
Ways
Lifetime
Way
Understanding
Guess
Stupidities
World
Learn
Spend
Enigmatic
Understand
Lucky
Guessing
Women
Laughing
Crying
Look
Inside
Laughed
Might
Strange
Stupidity
Looks
Learning
Cry

More quotes by Sylvia Plath

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Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: 'I'll go take a hot bath.
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I do not fear it: I have been there.
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The hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted & spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.
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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
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I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off
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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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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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All the heat and fear had purged itself. I felt surprisingly at peace. The bell jar hung suspended a few feet above my head. I was open to the circulating air.
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God, if ever I have come close to wanting to commit suicide, it is now, with the groggy sleepless blood dragging through my veins, and the air thick and gray with rain ... I fell into bed again this morning, begging for sleep, withdrawing into the dark, warm, fetid escape from action, from responsibility. No good.
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Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.
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The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.
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I knew you'd decide to be all right again.
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What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.
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I am too pure for you or anyone.
Sylvia Plath
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Miracles occur, If you dare to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.
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Winning or losing an argument, receiving an acceptance or rejection, is no proof of the validity or value of personal identity. One may be wrong, mistaken, or a poor craftsman, or just ignorant - but this is no indication of the true worth of one's total human identity: past, present and future!
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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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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.
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