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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.

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
Long
Comfort
Henry
Make
Reader
Biographies
Think
Friends
James
Posthumous
Thinking
Known
Readers
Mocked
Life
Read
Reputation
Ironically
Pain
Critics
Comforts
Didn
Wrote
Insulted
Children
Gave
Biography

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Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.
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I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly, as the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody I have nothing to do with explosions.
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I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off
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I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.
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You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you.
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They would grow old. They would forget me.
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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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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
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If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.
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I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.
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There is more than one good way to drown.
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I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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But everybody has exactly the same smiling frightened face, with the look that says: I'm important. If you only get to know me, you will see how important I am. Look into my eyes. Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.
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Perhaps you considered yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other. Thirty years now I have labored To dredge the silt from your throat. I am none the wiser.
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we walk the plank with strangers.
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Character is fate.
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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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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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Ash, ash —- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
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