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I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.

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
Feels
Much
Never
Bath
Baths
Feminism
Classic
Hot
Feel

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I am too pure for you or anyone.
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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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…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.
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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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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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I think if I had done anything else I would like to have been a doctor. This is the sort of polar opposition to being a writer, I suppose.
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I like people, but to learn about one individual always appeals to me more than anything.
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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 don't know what started me, I just wrote poetry from the time was quite small. I guess I liked nursery rhymes and I guess I thought I could do the same thing. I wrote my first poem, my first published poem, when I was eight-and-a-half years old. It came out in The Boston Traveller and from then on, I suppose, I've been a bit of a professional.
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A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage.
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Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.
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And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.
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Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn.
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I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn’t taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallowers’ sword and made me feel powerful and godlike.
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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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Is there no way out of the mind?
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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ
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Not being perfect hurts.
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You walked in, laughing, tears welling confused, mingling in your throat. How can you be so many women to so many people, oh you strange girl?
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I like people too much or not at all.
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