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I have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have.

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
Ever
Live
Life

More quotes by Sylvia Plath

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That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. Save them for my funeral, I'd said.
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With that strange knowing that comes over me, like a clairvoyance, I know that I am sure of myself and my enormous and alarmingly timeless love for you which will always be.
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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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We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.
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After all, we are nothing more or less than we choose to reveal.
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I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I could respect him.
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Look at that ugly dead mask here and do not forget it. It is a chalk mask with dead dry poison behind it, like the death angel. It is what I was this fall, and what I never want to be again. The pouting disconsolate mouth, the flat, bored, numb, expressionless eyes: symptoms of the foul decay within.
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I used to pray to recover you.
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I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.
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Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.
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August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
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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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A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion an insight like the flight of birds.
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The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.
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I felt very low. I had been unmasked only that morning by Jay Cee herself, and I felt now that all the uncomfortable suspicions I had about myself were coming true. After nineteen years of running after good marks and prizes and grants of one sort and another, I was letting up, slowing down, dropping clean out of race.
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The moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, white and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defensless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.
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I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
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The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed.
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There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
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