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Tomorrow I will curse the dawn, but there will be other, earlier nights, and the dawns will be no longer hell laid out in alarms and raw bells and sirens.

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
Illness
Alarms
Tomorrow
Nights
Longer
Bells
Hell
Earlier
Night
Laid
Curse
Dawn
Dawns
Depression
Sirens

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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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Sunday-the doctor's paradise! Doctors at country clubs, doctors at the seaside, doctors with mistresses, doctors with wives, doctors in church, doctors in yachts, doctors everywhere resolutely being people, not doctors.
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The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm
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Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it, or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.
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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.
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I've got to have something. I want to stop it all, the whole monumental grotesque joke, before it's too late. But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
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Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.
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What I hate is the thought of being under a man's thumb, I had told Doctor Nolan. A man doesn't have a worry in the world, while I've got a baby hanging over my head like a big stick, to keep me in line.
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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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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
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..I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. Save them for my funeral, I'd said.
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When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It's gone forever.
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My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing.
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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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I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.
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I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.
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