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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.

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
Clinical
Satisfaction
Seeing
Certain
Things

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So I kiss him, and there is the great dark sea ahead.
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We know a thing by its opposite corollary hot by having experienced cold good by having decided what is bad love by hate.
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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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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've got to have something. I want to stop it all, the whole monumental grotesque joke, before it's too late. But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.
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It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)
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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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Is there no way out of the mind?
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No day is safe from news of you.
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Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.
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What did my arms do before they held you?
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As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.
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They would grow old. They would forget me.
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Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?
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God, it was good to let go, let the tight mask fall off, and the bewildered, chaotic fragments pour out. It was the purge, the catharsis.
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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 felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.
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I knew you'd decide to be all right again.
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I must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.
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