Quote

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.

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
Time
Open
Spell
Eyes
Richer
Waiting
Spells
Eye
Dry
Comes
Productive
Live
Ears
Heart
Wait
Much
Harder

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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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To look at her, you might not guess that inside she is laughing and crying, at her own stupidities and luckiness, and at the strange enigmatic ways of the world which she will spend lifetime trying to learn and understand.
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At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
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I talk to God but the sky is empty.
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I am disabused of all faith, and see too clearly.
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Sunday-the doctor's paradise! Doctors at country clubs, doctors at the seaside, doctors with mistresses, doctors with wives, doctors in church, doctors in yachts, doctors everywhere resolutely being people, not doctors.
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Then I thought, No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.
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There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.
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If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.
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I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.
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God, if ever I have come close to wanting to commit suicide, it is now, with the groggy sleepless blood dragging through my veins, and the air thick and gray with rain ... I fell into bed again this morning, begging for sleep, withdrawing into the dark, warm, fetid escape from action, from responsibility. No good.
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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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You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you.
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The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren. Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
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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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The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.
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I am myself. That is not enough.
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Your room is not your prison. You are.
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