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I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.

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
Chance
Alcoholic
Alcoholics
Suppose
Gave

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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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I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
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Winning or losing an argument, receiving an acceptance or rejection, is no proof of the validity or value of personal identity. One may be wrong, mistaken, or a poor craftsman, or just ignorant - but this is no indication of the true worth of one's total human identity: past, present and future!
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And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
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I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
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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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If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.
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As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.
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I am not cruel, only truthful.
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I like people too much or not at all. I've got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.
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The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time.
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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 can't think logically about who I am or where I am going. I have been very ecstatic, horribly depressed, shocked, elated, enlightened, and enervated.
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I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.
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…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.
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Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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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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I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
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