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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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I may have made a straight A in physics, but I was panic-struck. Physics made me sick the whole time I learned 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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Character is fate.
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There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
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I wonder why I don't go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.
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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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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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I do not know who I am tonight.
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…beating time along the edge of thought.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.
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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.
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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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And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness
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I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, This is what it is to be happy.
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How we need another soul to cling to.
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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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Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.
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I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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