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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)

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
Firsts
Attempt
First
Suicide
Love
Majors
Major
Lasts
Last
Suicidal
Words
Hospital
Mother
Hospitals

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So I began to think maybe it was true that when you were married and had children it was like being brainwashed, and afterward you went about as numb as a slave in a totalitarian state.
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I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.
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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 shut my eyes and all the world drops dead I lift my eyes and all is born again.
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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
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Is there no way out of the mind?
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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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If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.
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I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
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Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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I could never be a complete scholar or a complete housewife ora completewriter: Imustcombinea little of all, and thereby be imperfect in all.
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But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.
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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
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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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Why honey, don't you want to get dressed? My mother took care never to tell me to do anything. She would only reason with me sweetly, like one intelligent, mature person with another. It's almost three in the afternoon. I'm writing a novel, I said. I haven't got time to change into this and change into that.
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As from a star I saw, coldly and soberly, the separateness of everything. I felt the wall of my skin I am I. That stone is a stone. My beautiful fusion with the things of this world was over.
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Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.
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