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To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.

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
World
Annihilate
Egoism
Deluded
Annihilation
Height
Desperate
Oneself

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There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.
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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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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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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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What I hate is the thought of being under a man's thumb, I had told Doctor Nolan. A man doesn't have a worry in the world, while I've got a baby hanging over my head like a big stick, to keep me in line.
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Character is fate.
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I am made, crudely, for success.
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If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
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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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No day is safe from news of you.
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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 find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.
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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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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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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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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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I am what I feel and think and do.
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I had always imagined myself hitching up on to my elbows on the delivery table after it was all over - dead white, of course, with no makeup and from the awful ordeal, but smiling and radiant, with my hair down to my waist, and reaching out for my first little squirmy child and saying its name, whatever it was.
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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.
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