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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
Deluded
Annihilation
Height
Desperate
Oneself
World
Annihilate
Egoism

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I want to taste and glory in each day, and never be afraid to experience pain and never shut myself up in a numb core of nonfeeling, or stop questioning and criticizing life and take the easy way out. To learn and think: to think and live to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.
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What I cannot forgive is dishonesty - and no matter what, or how hard, I would rather know the truth of which I today had such a clear & devastating vision from his mouth than hear foul evasions, blurrings and rattiness.
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I had hoped, at my departure, I would feel sure and knowledgeable about everything that lay ahead -- after all, I had been analyzed. Instead, all I could see were question marks.
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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
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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.
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Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.
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I collect men with interesting names.
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I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!
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I knew chemistry would be worse, because I'd seen a big card of the ninety-odd elements hung up in the chemistry lab, and all the perfectly good words like gold and silver and cobalt and aluminum were shortened to ugly abbreviations with different decimal numbers after them.
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Why do we electrocute men for murdering an individual and then pin a purple heart on them for mass slaughter of someone arbitrarily labeled “enemy?
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I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.
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I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.
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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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Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing- singing, laughing, learning.
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I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn’t taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallowers’ sword and made me feel powerful and godlike.
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No day is safe from news of you.
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A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.
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I lay in that tub on the seventeenth floor of this hotel for-women-only, high up over the jazz and push of New York, for near unto an hour, and I felt myself growing pure again. I don't believe in baptism or the waters of Jordan or anything like that, but I guess I feel about a hot bath the way those religious people feel about holy water.
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Is anyone anywhere happy?
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To learn and think to think and live to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.
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