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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
Made
Crudely
Success

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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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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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Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.
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I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.
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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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The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.
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But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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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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And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness
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Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.
Sylvia Plath
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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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They would grow old. They would forget me.
Sylvia Plath
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The moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, white and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
Sylvia Plath
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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.
Sylvia Plath
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The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren. Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
Sylvia Plath
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You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.
Sylvia Plath
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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
Sylvia Plath
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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.
Sylvia Plath