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Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it.

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
Like
Dead
Alive
Though
State
Easy
Change
States
Stone
Made
Stones

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I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
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I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
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There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.
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In spite of everything, I still have my good old sense of humor.
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Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.
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I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off.
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And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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I may have made a straight A in physics, but I was panic-struck. Physics made me sick the whole time I learned it.
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I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.
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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
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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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There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.
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The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.
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A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion an insight like the flight of birds.
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When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.
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If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
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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 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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The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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I wonder why I don't go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.
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