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Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.
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
Flowerpot
Spiders
Notice
Stopped
Heart
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
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I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.
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I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.
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A skeptic, I would ask for consistency first of all.
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I do not know who I am tonight.
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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
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How we need another soul to cling to.
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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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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'm about fifty years behind as far as my preferences go and I must say that the poets who excite me most are the Americans. There are very few contemporary English poets that I admire.
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I feel that very strongly: having been an academic, having been tempted by the invitation to stay on to become a Ph.D., a professor, and all that, one side of me certainly does respect all disciplines, as long as they don't ossify.
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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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I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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...we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.
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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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They would grow old. They would forget me.
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If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
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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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