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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?

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
Clouds
Pass
Faces
Heart
Love
Disperse
Agitate
Pale

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If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.
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But I am I now and so many other millions are so irretrievably their own special variety of 'I' that I can hardly bear to think of it. I: how firm a letter how reassuring the three strokes: one vertical, proud and assertive, and then the two short horizontal lines in quick, smug succession. The pen scratching on the paper…I…I…I…I…I…I.
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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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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 decided I would put off the novel until I had gone to Europe and had a lover, and that I would never learn a word of shorthand. If I never learned shorthand I would never have to use it.
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The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm
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I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.
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The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.
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As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.
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I am flushed and warm. I think I may be enormous, I am so stupidly happy, My wellingtons Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.
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I had always imagined myself hitching up on to my elbows on the delivery table after it was all over - dead white, of course, with no makeup and from the awful ordeal, but smiling and radiant, with my hair down to my waist, and reaching out for my first little squirmy child and saying its name, whatever it was.
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Character is fate.
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What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.
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A psychiatrist is the god of our age. But they cost money.
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I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly, as the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody I have nothing to do with explosions.
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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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Outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass.
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