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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.

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
Exit
Head
Wish
Find

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I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn’t taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallowers’ sword and made me feel powerful and godlike.
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We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.
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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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My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing.
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I am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.
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When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It's gone forever.
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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.
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Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.
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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 wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.
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I must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.
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I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates. He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greek movie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined it for both of us.
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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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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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No, I won't try to escape myself by losing myself in artificial chatter 'Did you have a nice vacation?' 'Oh, yes, and you?' I'll stay here and try to pin that loneliness down.
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Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.
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The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren. Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
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I have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have.
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