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My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.

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
Nothing
Work
Life
Prison
Discipline
Live
Without

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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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Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.
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I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.
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I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free.
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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
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Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
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Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing- singing, laughing, learning.
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I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
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Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.
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See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
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I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.
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To look at her, you might not guess that inside she is laughing and crying, at her own stupidities and luckiness, and at the strange enigmatic ways of the world which she will spend lifetime trying to learn and understand.
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They would grow old. They would forget me.
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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We know a thing by its opposite corollary hot by having experienced cold good by having decided what is bad love by hate.
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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
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I decided I would put off the novel until I had gone to Europe and had a lover, and that I would never learn a word of shorthand. If I never learned shorthand I would never have to use 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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Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person
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I must say that I am not very genteel and I feel that gentility has a stranglehold: the neatness, the wonderful tidiness, which is so evident everywhere in England is perhaps more dangerous than it would appear on the surface.
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