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What is so real as the cry of a child?

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
Cry
Child
Children
Real

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With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start.
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I collect men with interesting names.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defensless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.
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I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I could respect him.
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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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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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Talking about my fears to others feeds it.
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I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
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I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage.
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Miracles occur, If you dare to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.
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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 want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion an insight like the flight of birds.
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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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..I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person
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Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.
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