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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.

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
Blood
Death
Hot
Violence

More quotes by Sylvia Plath

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Good to know that if I ever need attention all I have to do is die.
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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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And if you have no past or future which, after all, is all that the present is made of, why then you may as well dispose of the empty shell of present and commit suicide.
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A skeptic, I would ask for consistency first of all.
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I think that as far as language goes I'm an American, I'm afraid, my accent is American, my way of talk is an American way of talk, I'm an old-fashioned American. That's probably one of the reasons why I'm in England now and why I'll always stay in England.
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Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
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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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The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.
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Miracles occur, If you dare to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.
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The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone. She is used to this sort of thing. Her blacks crackle and drag.
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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
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Perhaps you considered yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other. Thirty years now I have labored To dredge the silt from your throat. I am none the wiser.
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When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It's gone forever.
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I need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.
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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
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The moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, white and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
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Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it
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I have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have.
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Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.
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