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She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.

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
Window
Exist
Glossed
Sure
Stared
Moment
Windows
Moments
Shop
Make
Continued
Shops
Reflection

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A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
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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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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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Is there no way out of the mind?
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I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn’t taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallowers’ sword and made me feel powerful and godlike.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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Miracles occur, If you dare to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.
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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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The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.
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Good to know that if I ever need attention all I have to do is die.
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I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
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I didn't really see why people should look at me. Plenty of people looked queerer than I did.
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...we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.
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I like people too much or not at all. I've got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.
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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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God, it was good to let go, let the tight mask fall off, and the bewildered, chaotic fragments pour out. It was the purge, the catharsis.
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