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Slowly, slowly, catch the monkey.

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
Monkey
Monkeys
Slowly
Catch

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I am still so naïve I know pretty much what I like and dislike but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?
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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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I felt dumb and subdued. Every time I tried to concentrate, my mind glided off, like a skater, into a large empty space, and pirouetted there, absently.
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I said: I must remember this, being small.
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Look at that ugly dead mask here and do not forget it. It is a chalk mask with dead dry poison behind it, like the death angel. It is what I was this fall, and what I never want to be again. The pouting disconsolate mouth, the flat, bored, numb, expressionless eyes: symptoms of the foul decay within.
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Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
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…beating time along the edge of thought.
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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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Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
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If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.
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If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.
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As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.
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I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.
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Is there no way out of the mind?
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As I lay on my back in bed staring up at the blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger until I felt my eardrums would burst with it.
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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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Miracles occur, If you dare to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.
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I am disabused of all faith, and see too clearly.
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