Quote

I felt very low. I had been unmasked only that morning by Jay Cee herself, and I felt now that all the uncomfortable suspicions I had about myself were coming true. After nineteen years of running after good marks and prizes and grants of one sort and another, I was letting up, slowing down, dropping clean out of race.

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
Good
Sort
Grants
Unmasked
Morning
Prize
Suspicions
Race
Letting
Prizes
Felt
Uncomfortable
Slowing
Running
Lows
Nineteen
Another
Mark
Marks
True
Clean
Dropping
Years
Coming
Suspicion

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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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As I lay on my back in bed staring up at the blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger until I felt my eardrums would burst with it.
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We know a thing by its opposite corollary hot by having experienced cold good by having decided what is bad love by hate.
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Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
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Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.
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I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.
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I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.
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There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.
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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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I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!
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But everybody has exactly the same smiling frightened face, with the look that says: I'm important. If you only get to know me, you will see how important I am. Look into my eyes. Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.
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Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.
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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.
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God, if ever I have come close to wanting to commit suicide, it is now, with the groggy sleepless blood dragging through my veins, and the air thick and gray with rain ... I fell into bed again this morning, begging for sleep, withdrawing into the dark, warm, fetid escape from action, from responsibility. No good.
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They would grow old. They would forget me.
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I hadn't, at the last moment, felt like washing off the two diagonal lines of dried blood that marked my cheeks. They seemed touching, and rather spectacular, and I thought I would carry them around with me, like the relic of a dead lover, till they wore off of their own accord.
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A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage.
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I knew chemistry would be worse, because I'd seen a big card of the ninety-odd elements hung up in the chemistry lab, and all the perfectly good words like gold and silver and cobalt and aluminum were shortened to ugly abbreviations with different decimal numbers after them.
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