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Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.

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
Grows
Littles
Unsettling
Little
Tricky
Things
Anxious
World
Step
Steps
Grow
Takes

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You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you.
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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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Don't let the wicked city get you down.
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And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
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If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
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No, I won't try to escape myself by losing myself in artificial chatter 'Did you have a nice vacation?' 'Oh, yes, and you?' I'll stay here and try to pin that loneliness down.
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When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, lying in the tup and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank into sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.
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Outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass.
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Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.
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Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person
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Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it
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If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.
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I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free—— The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
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Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?
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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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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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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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And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
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Why do we electrocute men for murdering an individual and then pin a purple heart on them for mass slaughter of someone arbitrarily labeled “enemy?
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Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.
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