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Tomorrow is another day toward death.

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
Toward
Tomorrow
Death
Another

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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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God, it was good to let go, let the tight mask fall off, and the bewildered, chaotic fragments pour out. It was the purge, the catharsis.
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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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God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.
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But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.
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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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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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To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.
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If I have a dry spell ... I wait and live harder, eyes, ears, and heart open, and when the productive time comes, it is that much richer.
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I think I may well be a Jew.
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Joy:show joy & enjoy: then others will be joyful.
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I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn’t taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallowers’ sword and made me feel powerful and godlike.
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I saw the years of my life spaced along a road in the form of telephone poles threaded together by wires. I counted one, two, three... nineteen telephone poles, and then the wires dangled into space, and try as I would, I couldn't see a single pole beyond the nineteenth.
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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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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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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
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So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.
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Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
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The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.
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