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What I cannot forgive is dishonesty - and no matter what, or how hard, I would rather know the truth of which I today had such a clear & devastating vision from his mouth than hear foul evasions, blurrings and rattiness.

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
Truth
Forgiving
Today
Mouth
Matter
Mouths
Evasions
Hard
Vision
Evasion
Would
Hear
Devastating
Clear
Dishonesty
Rather
Foul
Cannot
Forgive

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I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
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You walked in, laughing, tears welling confused, mingling in your throat. How can you be so many women to so many people, oh you strange girl?
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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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I collect men with interesting names.
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When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, lying in the tup and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank into sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.
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A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion an insight like the flight of birds.
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Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.
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You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.
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I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.
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Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?
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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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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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What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid.
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