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I felt wise and cynical as all hell.

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
Felt
Cynical
Hell
Wise

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It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)
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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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I had imagined a kind, ugly, intuitive man looking up and say, 'Ah!' in an encouraging way, as if he could see something I couldn't, and then I would find words to tell him how I was so scared, as if I were being stuffed farther and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out.
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That’s one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
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I am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.
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If I have a dry spell ... I wait and live harder, eyes, ears, and heart open, and when the productive time comes, it is that much richer.
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I like people too much or not at all.
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Pretty soon, the only doubt in my mind was the precise time and method of committing suicide. The only alternative I could see was an eternity of hell for the rest of my life in a mental hospital, and I was going to use my last ounce of free choice and choose a quick clean ending.
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I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off
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What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid.
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The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed.
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we walk the plank with strangers.
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We know a thing by its opposite corollary hot by having experienced cold good by having decided what is bad love by hate.
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At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.
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Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.
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And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness
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