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As from a star I saw, coldly and soberly, the separateness of everything. I felt the wall of my skin I am I. That stone is a stone. My beautiful fusion with the things of this world was over.

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
Stars
Emptiness
Felt
Stone
Beautiful
Skin
Soberly
Everything
Skins
Coldly
Things
Stones
Numbness
World
Star
Separateness
Saws
Fusion
Wall
Detachment

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That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. Save them for my funeral, I'd said.
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And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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Good to know that if I ever need attention all I have to do is die.
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If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.
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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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This seemed a dreary and wasted life for a girl with fifteen years of straight A's, but I knew that's what marriage was like, because cook and clean and wash was just what Buddy Willard's mother did from morning till night, and she was the wife of a university professor and had been a private school teacher herself.
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I am not cruel, only truthful.
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I wonder about all the roads not taken and am moved to quote Frost...but won't. It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me.
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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
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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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You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.
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I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn’t taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallowers’ sword and made me feel powerful and godlike.
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I am too pure for you or anyone.
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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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I hadn't, at the last moment, felt like washing off the two diagonal lines of dried blood that marked my cheeks. They seemed touching, and rather spectacular, and I thought I would carry them around with me, like the relic of a dead lover, till they wore off of their own accord.
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I felt wise and cynical as all hell.
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I feel that very strongly: having been an academic, having been tempted by the invitation to stay on to become a Ph.D., a professor, and all that, one side of me certainly does respect all disciplines, as long as they don't ossify.
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Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?
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I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.
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