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I could never be a complete scholar or a complete housewife ora completewriter: Imustcombinea little of all, and thereby be imperfect in all.

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
Complete
Littles
Little
Never
Housewife
Thereby
Scholar
Imperfect

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I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.
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Ironically, Henry James' biography comforts me & I long to make known to him his posthumous reputation he wrote, in pain, gave all his life (which is more than I could think of doing I have Ted, will have children but few friends) & the critics insulted & mocked him, readers didn't read him.
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It was sometime in October she had long ago lost track of all the days and it really didn’t matter because one was like another and there were no nights to separate them because she never slept any more.
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Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.
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The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren. Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
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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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The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone. She is used to this sort of thing. Her blacks crackle and drag.
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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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I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.
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O heart, such disorganization!
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.
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As I lay on my back in bed staring up at the blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger until I felt my eardrums would burst with it.
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I have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.
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Is anyone anywhere happy?
Sylvia Plath
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The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.
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I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
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…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
Sylvia Plath
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But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
Sylvia Plath