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Perhaps you considered yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other. Thirty years now I have labored To dredge the silt from your throat. I am none the wiser.

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
None
Mouthpiece
Perhaps
Labored
Dead
Oracle
Years
Oracles
Wiser
Throat
Thirty
Silt
Considered
Dredge

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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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Joy:show joy & enjoy: then others will be joyful.
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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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I am sure there are things that can't be cured by a good bath but I can't think of one.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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Ash, ash —- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
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I hurl my heart to halt his pace.
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I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.
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I had imagined a kind, ugly, intuitive man looking up and say, 'Ah!' in an encouraging way, as if he could see something I couldn't, and then I would find words to tell him how I was so scared, as if I were being stuffed farther and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out.
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You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.
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And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.
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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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I think if I had done anything else I would like to have been a doctor. This is the sort of polar opposition to being a writer, I suppose.
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I can't think logically about who I am or where I am going. I have been very ecstatic, horribly depressed, shocked, elated, enlightened, and enervated.
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I talk to God but the sky is empty.
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I have this demon who wants me to run away screaming if I am going to be flawed, fallible. It wants me to think I'm so good I must be perfect. Or nothing. I am, on the contrary, something: a being who gets tired, has shyness to fight, has more trouble than most facing people easily.
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A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
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There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.
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How we need another soul to cling to.
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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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