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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
Gave
Chance
Alcoholic
Alcoholics
Suppose

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I have taken a pill to kill The thin Papery feeling.
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After all, we are nothing more or less than we choose to reveal.
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Why honey, don't you want to get dressed? My mother took care never to tell me to do anything. She would only reason with me sweetly, like one intelligent, mature person with another. It's almost three in the afternoon. I'm writing a novel, I said. I haven't got time to change into this and change into that.
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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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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 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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I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.
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I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ
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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 do not love I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.
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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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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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But I am I now and so many other millions are so irretrievably their own special variety of 'I' that I can hardly bear to think of it. I: how firm a letter how reassuring the three strokes: one vertical, proud and assertive, and then the two short horizontal lines in quick, smug succession. The pen scratching on the paper…I…I…I…I…I…I.
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I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.
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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.
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Good to know that if I ever need attention all I have to do is die.
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Ash, ash —- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
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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 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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