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But everybody has exactly the same smiling frightened face, with the look that says: I'm important. If you only get to know me, you will see how important I am. Look into my eyes. Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.

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
Eye
Kiss
Look
Kissing
Looks
Exactly
Important
Says
Everybody
Eyes
Face
Smiling
Faces
Frightened

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I am disabused of all faith, and see too clearly.
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Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.
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You ask me why I spend my life writing? Do I find entertainment? Is it worthwhile? Above all, does it pay? If not, then, is there a reason?... I write only because there is a voice within me. That will not be still.
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What a man wants is a mate and what a woman wants is infinite security,’ and, ‘What a man is is an arrow into the future and a what a woman is is the place the arrow shoots off from.
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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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I may have made a straight A in physics, but I was panic-struck. Physics made me sick the whole time I learned it.
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Pretty soon, the only doubt in my mind was the precise time and method of committing suicide. The only alternative I could see was an eternity of hell for the rest of my life in a mental hospital, and I was going to use my last ounce of free choice and choose a quick clean ending.
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I think I may well be a Jew.
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The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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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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I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
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I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
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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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That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. Save them for my funeral, I'd said.
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I opened the door and blinked out into the bright hall. I had the impression it wasn't night and it wasn't day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end.
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Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.
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And you grit your teeth, despising yourself for your tremulous sensitivity, and wondering how human beings can suffer their individualities to be mercilessly crushed under a machinelike dictatorship, be it of industry, state or organization, all their lives long.
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It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.
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