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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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So I began to think maybe it was true that when you were married and had children it was like being brainwashed, and afterward you went about as numb as a slave in a totalitarian state.
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I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
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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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Is there no way out of the mind?
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I need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible, someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up in shuddering horror and fear of the cement tunnels leading down to the shock room, to comfort me with an assurance that no psychiatrist can quite manage to convey.
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I am sure there are things that can't be cured by a good bath but I can't think of one.
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Then I thought, No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.
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She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.
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Don't let the wicked city get you down.
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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I want, I think, to be omniscient. I think I would like to call myself the girl who wanted to be God. Yet if I were not in this body where would I be-perhaps I am destined to be classified and qualified. But, oh, I cry out against it.
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The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.
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Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn.
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But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.
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As from a star I saw, coldly and soberly, the separateness of everything. I felt the wall of my skin I am I. That stone is a stone. My beautiful fusion with the things of this world was over.
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we walk the plank with strangers.
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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ
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Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.
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In spite of everything, I still have my good old sense of humor.
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