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The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.

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
Fault
Faults
Profound
Silence
Thought
Part
Must

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Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.
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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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... stop trying to get me to write about 'decent courageous people' -- read the Ladies' Home Journal for those! ... I believe in going through and facing the worst, not hiding from it.
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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defensless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.
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I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.
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I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.
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A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion an insight like the flight of birds.
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I wonder about all the roads not taken and am moved to quote Frost...but won't. It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me.
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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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Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing- singing, laughing, learning.
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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.
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I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.
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I have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.
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Frustrated? Yes. Why? Because it is impossible for me to be God — or the universal woman-and-man — or anything much. I am what I feel and think and do. I want to express my being as fully as I can because I somewhere picked up the idea that I could justify my being alive that way.
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I am not cruel, only truthful.
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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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I may have made a straight A in physics, but I was panic-struck. Physics made me sick the whole time I learned it.
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