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For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.

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
Jobs
Real
Writing
Evasion
Prose
Poetry

More quotes by Sylvia Plath

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The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
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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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Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.
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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 am disabused of all faith, and see too clearly.
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because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
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I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.
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I am made, crudely, for success.
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I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.
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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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I am still so naïve I know pretty much what I like and dislike but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?
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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 need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible, someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up in shuddering horror and fear of the cement tunnels leading down to the shock room, to comfort me with an assurance that no psychiatrist can quite manage to convey.
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Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?
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What did my arms do before they held you?
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.
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I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses.
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Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: 'I'll go take a hot bath.
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