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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.

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
Else
Able
Real
Provide
Made
Expect
Make
Ready
Life
Creative
Anyone
Inspirational

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Joy:show joy & enjoy: then others will be joyful.
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Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
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If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.
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I am made, crudely, for success.
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With that strange knowing that comes over me, like a clairvoyance, I know that I am sure of myself and my enormous and alarmingly timeless love for you which will always be.
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I have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have.
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There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.
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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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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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Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.
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Then I thought, No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.
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As I lay on my back in bed staring up at the blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger until I felt my eardrums would burst with it.
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August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
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Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it
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And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
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The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm
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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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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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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 felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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