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

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I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see, I swallow immediately. Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful.
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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrific, like madness, being tortured, this sort of experience, and one should be able to manipulate these experiences with an informed and an intelligent mini.
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The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time.
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Sunday-the doctor's paradise! Doctors at country clubs, doctors at the seaside, doctors with mistresses, doctors with wives, doctors in church, doctors in yachts, doctors everywhere resolutely being people, not doctors.
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I felt wise and cynical as all hell.
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I have taken a pill to kill The thin Papery feeling.
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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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The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
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I lay in that tub on the seventeenth floor of this hotel for-women-only, high up over the jazz and push of New York, for near unto an hour, and I felt myself growing pure again. I don't believe in baptism or the waters of Jordan or anything like that, but I guess I feel about a hot bath the way those religious people feel about holy water.
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There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.
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I saw the years of my life spaced along a road in the form of telephone poles threaded together by wires. I counted one, two, three... nineteen telephone poles, and then the wires dangled into space, and try as I would, I couldn't see a single pole beyond the nineteenth.
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I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.
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The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.
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Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.
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And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.
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God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.
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I think if I had done anything else I would like to have been a doctor. This is the sort of polar opposition to being a writer, I suppose.
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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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