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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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For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.
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I have this demon who wants me to run away screaming if I am going to be flawed, fallible. It wants me to think I'm so good I must be perfect. Or nothing. I am, on the contrary, something: a being who gets tired, has shyness to fight, has more trouble than most facing people easily.
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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?
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Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.
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Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?
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The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm
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And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.
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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 worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
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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 must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.
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we walk the plank with strangers.
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I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, This is what it is to be happy.
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Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.
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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrifying, like madness, being tortured...with an informed and intelligent mind.
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