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I am myself. That is not enough.

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
Conformity
Chaos
Enough

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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ
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I think I may well be a Jew.
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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.
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I hurl my heart to halt his pace.
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Not being perfect hurts.
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There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.
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I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free—— The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
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A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
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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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I dream too much, work too little.
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God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.
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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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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
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If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.
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Character is fate.
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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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What I want back is what I was Before the bed, before the knife, Before the brooch-pin and the salve Fixed me in this parenthesis Horses fluent in the wind, A place, a time gone out of mind.
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