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The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm

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
Creates
Honesty
Behinds
Behind
Pseudonym
Men
Pseudonyms
Like
Worm
Hides
Worms

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Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
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A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.
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I talk to God but the sky is empty.
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.
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The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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I am not cruel, only truthful.
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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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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.
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I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.
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I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.
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What did my arms do before they held you?
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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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So learn about life. Cut yourself a big slice with the silver server, a big slice of pie. Open your eyes. Let life happen.
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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
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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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