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A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.

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
Years
Bitterly
Eric
Million
Animals
Evolution
Millions
Animal

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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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Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.
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To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.
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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
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I am not cruel, only truthful.
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What did my arms do before they held you?
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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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Don't let the wicked city get you down.
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I had always imagined myself hitching up on to my elbows on the delivery table after it was all over - dead white, of course, with no makeup and from the awful ordeal, but smiling and radiant, with my hair down to my waist, and reaching out for my first little squirmy child and saying its name, whatever it was.
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As I lay on my back in bed staring up at the blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger until I felt my eardrums would burst with it.
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But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.
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Sometimes I feel like I'm not solid. I'm hollow. There's nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence.
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I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.
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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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I am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.
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But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.
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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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The box is only temporary.
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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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