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I have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.

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
Ever
Must
Work
Love
World
Worthy
Persons
Person

More quotes by Sylvia Plath

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It was sometime in October she had long ago lost track of all the days and it really didn’t matter because one was like another and there were no nights to separate them because she never slept any more.
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Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.
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See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
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As I lay on my back in bed staring up at the blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger until I felt my eardrums would burst with it.
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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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That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. Save them for my funeral, I'd said.
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Joy:show joy & enjoy: then others will be joyful.
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If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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I want to taste and glory in each day, and never be afraid to experience pain and never shut myself up in a numb core of nonfeeling, or stop questioning and criticizing life and take the easy way out. 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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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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A psychiatrist is the god of our age. But they cost money.
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Perhaps you considered yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other. Thirty years now I have labored To dredge the silt from your throat. I am none the wiser.
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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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So I began to think maybe it was true that when you were married and had children it was like being brainwashed, and afterward you went about as numb as a slave in a totalitarian state.
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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.
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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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I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.
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There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
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