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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.

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
Come
Nobody
Knew
Ever
Wanted

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For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.
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God, if ever I have come close to wanting to commit suicide, it is now, with the groggy sleepless blood dragging through my veins, and the air thick and gray with rain ... I fell into bed again this morning, begging for sleep, withdrawing into the dark, warm, fetid escape from action, from responsibility. No good.
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A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.
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What I want back is what I was Before the bed, before the knife, Before the brooch-pin and the salve Fixed me in this parenthesis Horses fluent in the wind, A place, a time gone out of mind.
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The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm
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I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!
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Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.
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I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.
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…beating time along the edge of thought.
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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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I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
Sylvia Plath
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She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.
Sylvia Plath
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Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses.
Sylvia Plath
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The moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, white and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
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And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
Sylvia Plath
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I don't know what started me, I just wrote poetry from the time was quite small. I guess I liked nursery rhymes and I guess I thought I could do the same thing. I wrote my first poem, my first published poem, when I was eight-and-a-half years old. It came out in The Boston Traveller and from then on, I suppose, I've been a bit of a professional.
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The box is only temporary.
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Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.
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