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I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.

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
Looks
Couldn
Darkness
Head
Getting
Point
Pretended
Night
Pillow
Look
Buried
Nothing
Forward

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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ
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... stop trying to get me to write about 'decent courageous people' -- read the Ladies' Home Journal for those! ... I believe in going through and facing the worst, not hiding from it.
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Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.
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I am still so naïve I know pretty much what I like and dislike but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?
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That’s one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
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If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
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They would grow old. They would forget me.
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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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I am made, crudely, for success.
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To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.
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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
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It was sometime in October she had long ago lost track of all the days and it really didn’t matter because one was like another and there were no nights to separate them because she never slept any more.
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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I want, I think, to be omniscient. I think I would like to call myself the girl who wanted to be God. Yet if I were not in this body where would I be-perhaps I am destined to be classified and qualified. But, oh, I cry out against it.
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I could never be a complete scholar or a complete housewife ora completewriter: Imustcombinea little of all, and thereby be imperfect in all.
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