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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
Notice
Stopped
Heart
Flowerpot
Spiders

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I knew chemistry would be worse, because I'd seen a big card of the ninety-odd elements hung up in the chemistry lab, and all the perfectly good words like gold and silver and cobalt and aluminum were shortened to ugly abbreviations with different decimal numbers after them.
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I collect men with interesting names.
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I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.
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I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.
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The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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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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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his mantel with a date engraved on it like the date on a tombstone.
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Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.
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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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Is there no way out of the mind?
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It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.
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The hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted & spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.
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The moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, white and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
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If I have a dry spell ... I wait and live harder, eyes, ears, and heart open, and when the productive time comes, it is that much richer.
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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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…beating time along the edge of thought.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
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I do not fear it: I have been there.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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