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

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I had hoped, at my departure, I would feel sure and knowledgeable about everything that lay ahead -- after all, I had been analyzed. Instead, all I could see were question marks.
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I am made, crudely, for success.
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Why honey, don't you want to get dressed? My mother took care never to tell me to do anything. She would only reason with me sweetly, like one intelligent, mature person with another. It's almost three in the afternoon. I'm writing a novel, I said. I haven't got time to change into this and change into that.
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I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly, as the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody I have nothing to do with explosions.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his mantel with a date engraved on it like the date on a tombstone.
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The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing- singing, laughing, learning.
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…'It always has to end, doesn't it? We always have to separate.' 'Yes,' I said. He was insistent, 'But it doesn't always have to be that way. We could be together some day for always.' 'Oh, no,' I told him, wondering if he knew it was all over. 'We keep running till we die. We separate, get further apart, till we are dead.
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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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For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.
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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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I do not love I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.
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Frustrated? Yes. Why? Because it is impossible for me to be God — or the universal woman-and-man — or anything much. I am what I feel and think and do. I want to express my being as fully as I can because I somewhere picked up the idea that I could justify my being alive that way.
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Ironically, Henry James' biography comforts me & I long to make known to him his posthumous reputation he wrote, in pain, gave all his life (which is more than I could think of doing I have Ted, will have children but few friends) & the critics insulted & mocked him, readers didn't read him.
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And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.
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I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.
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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.
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The box is only temporary.
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