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We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.
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
Home
Self
Writing
Life
Outstretched
Consolidate
Selves
Stayed
Write
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it
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I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.
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Good to know that if I ever need attention all I have to do is die.
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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.
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But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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No, I won't try to escape myself by losing myself in artificial chatter 'Did you have a nice vacation?' 'Oh, yes, and you?' I'll stay here and try to pin that loneliness down.
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What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.
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So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.
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Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.
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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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I like people too much or not at all. I've got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.
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To look at her, you might not guess that inside she is laughing and crying, at her own stupidities and luckiness, and at the strange enigmatic ways of the world which she will spend lifetime trying to learn and understand.
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Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.
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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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Don't let the wicked city get you down.
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Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.
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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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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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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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What is so real as the cry of a child?
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