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I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.

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
Blazing
Deserve
Sort
Live
Love

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Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.
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So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.
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I knew you'd decide to be all right again.
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A skeptic, I would ask for consistency first of all.
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I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off.
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There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart - It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge, For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
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I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn’t taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallowers’ sword and made me feel powerful and godlike.
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…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.
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You are a dream I hope I never meet you.
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I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.
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As from a star I saw, coldly and soberly, the separateness of everything. I felt the wall of my skin I am I. That stone is a stone. My beautiful fusion with the things of this world was over.
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Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.
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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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To learn and think to think and live to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.
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I must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.
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I've got to have something. I want to stop it all, the whole monumental grotesque joke, before it's too late. But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.
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There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.
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I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates. He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greek movie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined it for both of us.
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