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I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off.

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
Speak
Way
Choked
Zombie
Throat
Calm
Cool
Rose
Tried

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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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See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
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…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.
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It never occurred to me to say no.
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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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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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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Winter is for women The woman still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanish walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.
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I am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.
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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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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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They would grow old. They would forget me.
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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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I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print, the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig-tree.
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A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage.
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At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
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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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Outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass.
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That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. Save them for my funeral, I'd said.
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I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead I lift my eyes and all is born again.
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