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The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.

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
Hollow
Yesterday
Rots
Yesterdays
Slime
Skull
Skulls

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I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
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There was a beautiful time.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion an insight like the flight of birds.
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I knew you'd decide to be all right again.
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I like people too much or not at all.
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I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.
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Not being perfect hurts.
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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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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 must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.
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I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
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A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.
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It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles.
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I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates. He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greek movie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined it for both of us.
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The box is only temporary.
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At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
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I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I could respect him.
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