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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 wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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Ironically, Henry James' biography comforts me & I long to make known to him his posthumous reputation he wrote, in pain, gave all his life (which is more than I could think of doing I have Ted, will have children but few friends) & the critics insulted & mocked him, readers didn't read him.
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Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.
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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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I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.
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I think that as far as language goes I'm an American, I'm afraid, my accent is American, my way of talk is an American way of talk, I'm an old-fashioned American. That's probably one of the reasons why I'm in England now and why I'll always stay in England.
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You are a dream I hope I never meet you.
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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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There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart - It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge, For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
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..I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.
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Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.
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Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
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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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Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.
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My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing.
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The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.
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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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