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

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The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.
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I am made, crudely, for success.
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There is more than one good way to drown.
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I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.
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I think I am worthwhile just because I have optical nerves and can try to put down what they perceive. What a fool!
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I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.
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Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person
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I feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.
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I do not fear it: I have been there.
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So learn about life. Cut yourself a big slice with the silver server, a big slice of pie. Open your eyes. Let life happen.
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I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
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If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.
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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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Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?
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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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Ironically, Henry James' biography comforts me & I long to make known to him his posthumous reputation he wrote, in pain, gave all his life (which is more than I could think of doing I have Ted, will have children but few friends) & the critics insulted & mocked him, readers didn't read him.
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Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.
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