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Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?

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
Best
Different
Trying
Like
Fits
Dresses
Fit
Becoming
Lives

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Don't let the wicked city get you down.
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Look at that ugly dead mask here and do not forget it. It is a chalk mask with dead dry poison behind it, like the death angel. It is what I was this fall, and what I never want to be again. The pouting disconsolate mouth, the flat, bored, numb, expressionless eyes: symptoms of the foul decay within.
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You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.
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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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I need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.
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Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person
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I opened the door and blinked out into the bright hall. I had the impression it wasn't night and it wasn't day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end.
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Not being perfect hurts.
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See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
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I'm about fifty years behind as far as my preferences go and I must say that the poets who excite me most are the Americans. There are very few contemporary English poets that I admire.
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Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?
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Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it.
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I could never be a complete scholar or a complete housewife ora completewriter: Imustcombinea little of all, and thereby be imperfect in all.
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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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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
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I do not know who I am tonight.
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Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his mantel with a date engraved on it like the date on a tombstone.
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What did my arms do before they held you?
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What I cannot forgive is dishonesty - and no matter what, or how hard, I would rather know the truth of which I today had such a clear & devastating vision from his mouth than hear foul evasions, blurrings and rattiness.
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