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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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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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I knew you'd decide to be all right again.
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Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it
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I want to taste and glory in each day, and never be afraid to experience pain and never shut myself up in a numb core of nonfeeling, or stop questioning and criticizing life and take the easy way out. To learn and think: to think and live to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.
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There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
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I wonder why I don't go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.
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I like people, but to learn about one individual always appeals to me more than anything.
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I must say that I am not very genteel and I feel that gentility has a stranglehold: the neatness, the wonderful tidiness, which is so evident everywhere in England is perhaps more dangerous than it would appear on the surface.
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Is anyone anywhere happy?
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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.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
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As I lay on my back in bed staring up at the blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger until I felt my eardrums would burst with it.
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I do not fear it: I have been there.
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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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Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.
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Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.
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I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
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Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.
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I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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