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

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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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Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those.
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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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You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you.
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Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: 'I'll go take a hot bath.
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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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When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.
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Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.
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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
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But I am I now and so many other millions are so irretrievably their own special variety of 'I' that I can hardly bear to think of it. I: how firm a letter how reassuring the three strokes: one vertical, proud and assertive, and then the two short horizontal lines in quick, smug succession. The pen scratching on the paper…I…I…I…I…I…I.
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There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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It never occurred to me to say no.
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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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If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
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Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.
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What did my arms do before they held you?
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I like people too much or not at all. I've got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.
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My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.
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