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After all, we are nothing more or less than we choose to reveal.

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
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I have taken a pill to kill The thin Papery feeling.
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Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.
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Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.
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The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time.
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Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?
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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
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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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I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.
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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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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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The hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted & spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.
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I opened the door and blinked out into the bright hall. I had the impression it wasn't night and it wasn't day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end.
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Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.
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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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And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
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Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.
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I talk to God but the sky is empty.
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If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.
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I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
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