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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
Men
Pseudonyms
Like
Worm
Hides
Worms
Creates
Honesty
Behinds
Behind
Pseudonym

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There was a beautiful time.
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Pretty soon, the only doubt in my mind was the precise time and method of committing suicide. The only alternative I could see was an eternity of hell for the rest of my life in a mental hospital, and I was going to use my last ounce of free choice and choose a quick clean ending.
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A psychiatrist is the god of our age. But they cost money.
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Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.
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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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... stop trying to get me to write about 'decent courageous people' -- read the Ladies' Home Journal for those! ... I believe in going through and facing the worst, not hiding from it.
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If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
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There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.
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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I could respect him.
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If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.
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If I have a dry spell ... I wait and live harder, eyes, ears, and heart open, and when the productive time comes, it is that much richer.
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Frustrated? Yes. Why? Because it is impossible for me to be God — or the universal woman-and-man — or anything much. I am what I feel and think and do. I want to express my being as fully as I can because I somewhere picked up the idea that I could justify my being alive that way.
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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.
Sylvia Plath
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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 have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.
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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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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.
Sylvia Plath
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That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. Save them for my funeral, I'd said.
Sylvia Plath