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I am not cruel, only truthful.

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
Truthful
Cruel

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I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I could respect him.
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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrifying, like madness, being tortured...with an informed and intelligent mind.
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Don't let the wicked city get you down.
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Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.
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We know a thing by its opposite corollary hot by having experienced cold good by having decided what is bad love by hate.
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The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.
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Winning or losing an argument, receiving an acceptance or rejection, is no proof of the validity or value of personal identity. One may be wrong, mistaken, or a poor craftsman, or just ignorant - but this is no indication of the true worth of one's total human identity: past, present and future!
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Then I thought, No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.
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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.
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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 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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A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage.
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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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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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I felt very low. I had been unmasked only that morning by Jay Cee herself, and I felt now that all the uncomfortable suspicions I had about myself were coming true. After nineteen years of running after good marks and prizes and grants of one sort and another, I was letting up, slowing down, dropping clean out of race.
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O heart, such disorganization!
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I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.
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I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
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There is more than one good way to drown.
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