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One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.

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
Trying
Unflattering
Hideously
Revealed
Honest
Rather
Often
Thing

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There was a beautiful time.
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As from a star I saw, coldly and soberly, the separateness of everything. I felt the wall of my skin I am I. That stone is a stone. My beautiful fusion with the things of this world was over.
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If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.
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I felt wise and cynical as all hell.
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The hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted & spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.
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Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.
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The box is only temporary.
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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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O heart, such disorganization!
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I want to taste and glory in each day, and never be afraid to experience pain and never shut myself up in a numb core of nonfeeling, or stop questioning and criticizing life and take the easy way out. To learn and think: to think and live to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.
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And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.
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Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.
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Not being perfect hurts.
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Is there no way out of the mind?
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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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Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.
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The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren. Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
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The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
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I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.
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