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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.

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
Wells
Feminism
Well
Classic
Useless
Educated
Middle
Brilliantly
Age
Promising
Idea
Fading
Ideas
Indifferent

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I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.
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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
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Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
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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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But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.
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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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I must say that I am not very genteel and I feel that gentility has a stranglehold: the neatness, the wonderful tidiness, which is so evident everywhere in England is perhaps more dangerous than it would appear on the surface.
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I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
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Not being perfect hurts.
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There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
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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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I am flushed and warm. I think I may be enormous, I am so stupidly happy, My wellingtons Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.
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I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead I lift my eyes and all is born again.
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And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.
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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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I have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.
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I feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.
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Why honey, don't you want to get dressed? My mother took care never to tell me to do anything. She would only reason with me sweetly, like one intelligent, mature person with another. It's almost three in the afternoon. I'm writing a novel, I said. I haven't got time to change into this and change into that.
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