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I am made, crudely, for success.

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
Success
Made
Crudely

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To learn and think to think and live to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.
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It was sometime in October she had long ago lost track of all the days and it really didn’t matter because one was like another and there were no nights to separate them because she never slept any more.
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Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
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The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.
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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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…beating time along the edge of thought.
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The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.
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I am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.
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I am not cruel, only truthful.
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A psychiatrist is the god of our age. But they cost money.
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I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
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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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It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)
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You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.
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But I am I now and so many other millions are so irretrievably their own special variety of 'I' that I can hardly bear to think of it. I: how firm a letter how reassuring the three strokes: one vertical, proud and assertive, and then the two short horizontal lines in quick, smug succession. The pen scratching on the paper…I…I…I…I…I…I.
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Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.
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As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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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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There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart - It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge, For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
Sylvia Plath