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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
Hideously
Revealed
Honest
Rather
Often
Thing
Trying
Unflattering

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See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
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I think if I had done anything else I would like to have been a doctor. This is the sort of polar opposition to being a writer, I suppose.
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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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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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Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.
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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
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I talk to God but the sky is empty.
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What I didn't say was that each time I picked up a German dictionary or a German book, the very sight of those dense, black, barbed-wire letters made my mind shut like a clam.
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Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses.
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The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.
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I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.
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It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)
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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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I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print, the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig-tree.
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When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, lying in the tup and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank into sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
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A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
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There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.
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Why do we electrocute men for murdering an individual and then pin a purple heart on them for mass slaughter of someone arbitrarily labeled “enemy?
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