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Your room is not your prison. You are.

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
Prison
Room
Rooms

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I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
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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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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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What did my arms do before they held you?
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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 never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.
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You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.
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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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They would grow old. They would forget me.
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I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.
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Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.
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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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What I didn't say was that each time I picked up a German dictionary or a German book, the very sight of those dense, black, barbed-wire letters made my mind shut like a clam.
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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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…beating time along the edge of thought.
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I am disabused of all faith, and see too clearly.
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I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.
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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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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.
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