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Dancing is the normal prelude to intercourse.

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
Dancing
Normal
Prelude
Intercourse

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The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.
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It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles.
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Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.
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I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.
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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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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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…beating time along the edge of thought.
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I talk to God but the sky is empty.
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That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. Save them for my funeral, I'd said.
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The moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, white and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
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I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
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because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
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When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.
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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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I do not fear it: I have been there.
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Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?
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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.
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The box is only temporary.
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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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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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