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

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One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.
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Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
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I think I may well be a Jew.
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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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August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
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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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I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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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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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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I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.
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If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.
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So learn about life. Cut yourself a big slice with the silver server, a big slice of pie. Open your eyes. Let life happen.
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If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
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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.
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It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.
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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 got to burn away all the peripherals.
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I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.
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