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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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I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.
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I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.
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I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.
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I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.
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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ
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...we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.
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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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Miracles occur, If you dare to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.
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I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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Sometimes I feel like I'm not solid. I'm hollow. There's nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence.
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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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A psychiatrist is the god of our age. But they cost money.
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I lay in that tub on the seventeenth floor of this hotel for-women-only, high up over the jazz and push of New York, for near unto an hour, and I felt myself growing pure again. I don't believe in baptism or the waters of Jordan or anything like that, but I guess I feel about a hot bath the way those religious people feel about holy water.
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Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.
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With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start.
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Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it
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Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.
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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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