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I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.

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
Realize
Realizing
Existence
Ability
Matter
Heredity
Great
Drop
Defined
Sea

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I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
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The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.
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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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I didn't really see why people should look at me. Plenty of people looked queerer than I did.
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With that strange knowing that comes over me, like a clairvoyance, I know that I am sure of myself and my enormous and alarmingly timeless love for you which will always be.
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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
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I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.
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And if you have no past or future which, after all, is all that the present is made of, why then you may as well dispose of the empty shell of present and commit suicide.
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The hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted & spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.
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I don't know what started me, I just wrote poetry from the time was quite small. I guess I liked nursery rhymes and I guess I thought I could do the same thing. I wrote my first poem, my first published poem, when I was eight-and-a-half years old. It came out in The Boston Traveller and from then on, I suppose, I've been a bit of a professional.
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Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
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I knew you'd decide to be all right again.
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I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
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Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.
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I wonder why I don't go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.
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So I kiss him, and there is the great dark sea ahead.
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Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.
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