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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
Seem
Doubt
Seems
Littles
May
Little
Misgivings
Self
Acres
Successes

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I felt dumb and subdued. Every time I tried to concentrate, my mind glided off, like a skater, into a large empty space, and pirouetted there, absently.
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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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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrifying, like madness, being tortured...with an informed and intelligent mind.
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I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
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I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
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This seemed a dreary and wasted life for a girl with fifteen years of straight A's, but I knew that's what marriage was like, because cook and clean and wash was just what Buddy Willard's mother did from morning till night, and she was the wife of a university professor and had been a private school teacher herself.
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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.
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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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There was a beautiful time.
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I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.
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Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
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I have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.
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Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it, or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.
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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
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I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.
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Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?
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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 like people too much or not at all.
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