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I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.

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
Yank
Ruts
Unable
Mind

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I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.
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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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I think if I had done anything else I would like to have been a doctor. This is the sort of polar opposition to being a writer, I suppose.
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I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
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Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.
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So I kiss him, and there is the great dark sea ahead.
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I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.
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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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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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I am flushed and warm. I think I may be enormous, I am so stupidly happy, My wellingtons Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.
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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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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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Sunday-the doctor's paradise! Doctors at country clubs, doctors at the seaside, doctors with mistresses, doctors with wives, doctors in church, doctors in yachts, doctors everywhere resolutely being people, not doctors.
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So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.
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Good to know that if I ever need attention all I have to do is die.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
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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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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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