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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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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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I have taken a pill to kill The thin Papery feeling.
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A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.
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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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I am flushed and warm. I think I may be enormous, I am so stupidly happy, My wellingtons Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.
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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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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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If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.
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I like people too much or not at all.
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I feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.
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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
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I like people, but to learn about one individual always appeals to me more than anything.
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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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