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My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing.

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
Habit
Worst
Fear
Rationalizing
Destructive

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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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I opened the door and blinked out into the bright hall. I had the impression it wasn't night and it wasn't day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end.
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..I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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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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The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.
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I can't think logically about who I am or where I am going. I have been very ecstatic, horribly depressed, shocked, elated, enlightened, and enervated.
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Joy:show joy & enjoy: then others will be joyful.
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I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.
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There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
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I am too pure for you or anyone.
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It is best to meet in a cul-de-sac, A palace of velvet With windows of mirrors. There one is safe, There are no family photographs, No rings through the nose, no cries.
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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defensless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.
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Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.
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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.
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we walk the plank with strangers.
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I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.
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