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You are a dream I hope I never meet you.

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
Meet
Hope
Dream
Never

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I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.
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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 being perfect hurts.
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Tomorrow I will curse the dawn, but there will be other, earlier nights, and the dawns will be no longer hell laid out in alarms and raw bells and sirens.
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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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I can't think logically about who I am or where I am going. I have been very ecstatic, horribly depressed, shocked, elated, enlightened, and enervated.
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I didn't really see why people should look at me. Plenty of people looked queerer than I did.
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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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Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those.
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Your room is not your prison. You are.
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I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.
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I don't know what started me, I just wrote poetry from the time was quite small. I guess I liked nursery rhymes and I guess I thought I could do the same thing. I wrote my first poem, my first published poem, when I was eight-and-a-half years old. It came out in The Boston Traveller and from then on, I suppose, I've been a bit of a professional.
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See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
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The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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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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It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.
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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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If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.
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I knew you'd decide to be all right again.
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There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.
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