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It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.

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
Safer
Touch
Feel
Feels
Much
World

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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 am what I feel and think and do.
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I must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ
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The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.
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I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.
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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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As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.
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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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Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it
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God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.
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Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?
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Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those.
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The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.
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I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.
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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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