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Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.

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
Took
Fats
Place
Cry
Going
Elements
Love
Gold
Like
Birth
Watches
Slapped
Among
Midwife
Watch
Bald

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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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See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
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I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.
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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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I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.
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Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.
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Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?
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I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence.
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And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
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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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Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.
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Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrific, like madness, being tortured, this sort of experience, and one should be able to manipulate these experiences with an informed and an intelligent mini.
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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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I felt wise and cynical as all hell.
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Your room is not your prison. You are.
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I am too pure for you or anyone.
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To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.
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