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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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With that strange knowing that comes over me, like a clairvoyance, I know that I am sure of myself and my enormous and alarmingly timeless love for you which will always be.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.
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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
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When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It's gone forever.
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I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
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Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.
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…beating time along the edge of thought.
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I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
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A man's world is different from a woman's world and a man's emotions are different from a woman's emotions and only marriage can bring the two different sets of emotions together properly.
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I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
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Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.
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There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
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A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.
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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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And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
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... stop trying to get me to write about 'decent courageous people' -- read the Ladies' Home Journal for those! ... I believe in going through and facing the worst, not hiding from it.
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The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
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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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