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Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it

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
Cry
Shadow
Lying
Love

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It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.
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The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.
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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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... stop trying to get me to write about 'decent courageous people' -- read the Ladies' Home Journal for those! ... I believe in going through and facing the worst, not hiding from it.
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And you grit your teeth, despising yourself for your tremulous sensitivity, and wondering how human beings can suffer their individualities to be mercilessly crushed under a machinelike dictatorship, be it of industry, state or organization, all their lives long.
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I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.
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I said: I must remember this, being small.
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I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free—— The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
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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.
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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
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That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. Save them for my funeral, I'd said.
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We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.
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The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time.
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The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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I do not love I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.
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O heart, such disorganization!
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