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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.

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
Heart
Doesn
Abandonment
Cannot
Heartbreak
Someone
Betrayal
Give
Memorable
Back
Feminism
Take
Classic
Whole
Forever
Giving
Gone
Unrequited

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So I kiss him, and there is the great dark sea ahead.
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This seemed a dreary and wasted life for a girl with fifteen years of straight A's, but I knew that's what marriage was like, because cook and clean and wash was just what Buddy Willard's mother did from morning till night, and she was the wife of a university professor and had been a private school teacher herself.
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.
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I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?
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Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.
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Perhaps you considered yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other. Thirty years now I have labored To dredge the silt from your throat. I am none the wiser.
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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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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline, you've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space that you've just got to turn away all the peripherals.
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A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.
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Talking about my fears to others feeds it.
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Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.
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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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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 have this demon who wants me to run away screaming if I am going to be flawed, fallible. It wants me to think I'm so good I must be perfect. Or nothing. I am, on the contrary, something: a being who gets tired, has shyness to fight, has more trouble than most facing people easily.
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I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.
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Character is fate.
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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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I didn't really see why people should look at me. Plenty of people looked queerer than I did.
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