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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
Animal
Years
Bitterly
Eric
Million
Animals
Evolution
Millions

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It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles.
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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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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
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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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I do not know who I am tonight.
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I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.
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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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And you grit your teeth, despising yourself for your tremulous sensitivity, and wondering how human beings can suffer their individualities to be mercilessly crushed under a machinelike dictatorship, be it of industry, state or organization, all their lives long.
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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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What I want back is what I was Before the bed, before the knife, Before the brooch-pin and the salve Fixed me in this parenthesis Horses fluent in the wind, A place, a time gone out of mind.
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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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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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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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I've got to have something. I want to stop it all, the whole monumental grotesque joke, before it's too late. But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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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 felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his mantel with a date engraved on it like the date on a tombstone.
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I don't know what started me, I just wrote poetry from the time was quite small. I guess I liked nursery rhymes and I guess I thought I could do the same thing. I wrote my first poem, my first published poem, when I was eight-and-a-half years old. It came out in The Boston Traveller and from then on, I suppose, I've been a bit of a professional.
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…beating time along the edge of thought.
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