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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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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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I must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.
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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
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I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
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What I cannot forgive is dishonesty - and no matter what, or how hard, I would rather know the truth of which I today had such a clear & devastating vision from his mouth than hear foul evasions, blurrings and rattiness.
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You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you.
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Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.
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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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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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What I didn't say was that each time I picked up a German dictionary or a German book, the very sight of those dense, black, barbed-wire letters made my mind shut like a clam.
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I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.
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I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see, I swallow immediately. Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful.
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Is anyone anywhere happy?
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And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.
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If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.
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…beating time along the edge of thought.
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There is more than one good way to drown.
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I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.
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Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.
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