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For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.

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
Self
Acres
Successes
Seem
Doubt
Seems
Littles
May
Little
Misgivings

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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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At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
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It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles.
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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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I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
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Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.
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A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
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I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.
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But I am I now and so many other millions are so irretrievably their own special variety of 'I' that I can hardly bear to think of it. I: how firm a letter how reassuring the three strokes: one vertical, proud and assertive, and then the two short horizontal lines in quick, smug succession. The pen scratching on the paper…I…I…I…I…I…I.
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I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
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Your room is not your prison. You are.
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Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.
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Winning or losing an argument, receiving an acceptance or rejection, is no proof of the validity or value of personal identity. One may be wrong, mistaken, or a poor craftsman, or just ignorant - but this is no indication of the true worth of one's total human identity: past, present and future!
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I am still so naïve I know pretty much what I like and dislike but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?
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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 think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.
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I think I am worthwhile just because I have optical nerves and can try to put down what they perceive. What a fool!
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