Quote

I have this demon who wants me to run away screaming if I am going to be flawed, fallible. It wants me to think I'm so good I must be perfect. Or nothing. I am, on the contrary, something: a being who gets tired, has shyness to fight, has more trouble than most facing people easily.

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
Nothing
Gets
Shyness
Must
Fight
Screaming
Going
Wants
Flawed
Something
Trouble
Facing
Good
Fighting
Demon
Think
Perfect
Contrary
Thinking
Running
Easily
People
Away
Tired
Fallible

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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
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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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I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.
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I have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have.
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A man's world is different from a woman's world and a man's emotions are different from a woman's emotions and only marriage can bring the two different sets of emotions together properly.
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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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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Why do we electrocute men for murdering an individual and then pin a purple heart on them for mass slaughter of someone arbitrarily labeled “enemy?
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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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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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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
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My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.
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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 feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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I do not fear it: I have been there.
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When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It's gone forever.
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If every soldier refused to take arms ... there would be no wars but no one has the courage to be the first to live according to Christ and Socrates, because in a world of opportunists they would be martyred.
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What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid.
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