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The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.

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
Claw
Claws
Scent
Drunk
Asks
Nothing
Magnolia
Life
Magnolias
Scents

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I wonder about all the roads not taken and am moved to quote Frost...but won't. It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me.
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A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion an insight like the flight of birds.
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I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!
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How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotions, my feeling, by turning it into print?
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Winning or losing an argument, receiving an acceptance or rejection, is no proof of the validity or value of personal identity. One may be wrong, mistaken, or a poor craftsman, or just ignorant - but this is no indication of the true worth of one's total human identity: past, present and future!
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Character is fate.
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God, it was good to let go, let the tight mask fall off, and the bewildered, chaotic fragments pour out. It was the purge, the catharsis.
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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.
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Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
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I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.
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I am myself. That is not enough.
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O heart, such disorganization!
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Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?
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Look at that ugly dead mask here and do not forget it. It is a chalk mask with dead dry poison behind it, like the death angel. It is what I was this fall, and what I never want to be again. The pouting disconsolate mouth, the flat, bored, numb, expressionless eyes: symptoms of the foul decay within.
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For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.
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I am not cruel, only truthful.
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I think I am worthwhile just because I have optical nerves and can try to put down what they perceive. What a fool!
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If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.
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