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I dream too much, work too little.

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
Littles
Little
Work
Much
Dream

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I don't know what started me, I just wrote poetry from the time was quite small. I guess I liked nursery rhymes and I guess I thought I could do the same thing. I wrote my first poem, my first published poem, when I was eight-and-a-half years old. It came out in The Boston Traveller and from then on, I suppose, I've been a bit of a professional.
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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrifying, like madness, being tortured...with an informed and intelligent mind.
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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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No day is safe from news of you.
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I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free—— The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ
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I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.
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I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.
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God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.
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Sometimes I feel like I'm not solid. I'm hollow. There's nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence.
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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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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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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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I collect men with interesting names.
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For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.
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I may have made a straight A in physics, but I was panic-struck. Physics made me sick the whole time I learned it.
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The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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Let's face it: I'm scared, scared and frozen. First, I guess, I'm afraid for myself...the old primitive urge for survival. It's getting so I live every moment with terrible intensity.
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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.
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