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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.

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
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Woman
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Find
Men
Proper
Step
Steps

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I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.
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In this particular tub, two knees jut up like icebergs, while minute brown hairs rise on arms and legs in a fringe of kelp green soap navigates the tidal slosh of seas breaking on legendary beaches in faith 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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Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.
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Your room is not your prison. You are.
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The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.
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I opened the door and blinked out into the bright hall. I had the impression it wasn't night and it wasn't day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end.
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I am flushed and warm. I think I may be enormous, I am so stupidly happy, My wellingtons Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.
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It never occurred to me to say no.
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And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness
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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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Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.
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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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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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Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.
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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates. He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greek movie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined it for both of us.
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For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.
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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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As I lay on my back in bed staring up at the blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger until I felt my eardrums would burst with it.
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I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
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