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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
Choose
Less
Nothing
Reveal

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Character is fate.
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Perhaps you considered yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other. Thirty years now I have labored To dredge the silt from your throat. I am none the wiser.
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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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Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.
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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!
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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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Joy:show joy & enjoy: then others will be joyful.
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I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see, I swallow immediately. Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful.
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I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off.
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...we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.
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I had imagined a kind, ugly, intuitive man looking up and say, 'Ah!' in an encouraging way, as if he could see something I couldn't, and then I would find words to tell him how I was so scared, as if I were being stuffed farther and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out.
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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.
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I am not cruel, only truthful.
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I am sure there are things that can't be cured by a good bath but I can't think of one.
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A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.
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I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
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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 just got to turn away all the peripherals.
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