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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
Must
Work
Love
World
Worthy
Persons
Person
Ever

More quotes by Sylvia Plath

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God, if ever I have come close to wanting to commit suicide, it is now, with the groggy sleepless blood dragging through my veins, and the air thick and gray with rain ... I fell into bed again this morning, begging for sleep, withdrawing into the dark, warm, fetid escape from action, from responsibility. No good.
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I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off
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There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.
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Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.
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I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!
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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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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 need more than anything right now what is, of course, most impossible, someone to love me, to be with me at night when I wake up in shuddering horror and fear of the cement tunnels leading down to the shock room, to comfort me with an assurance that no psychiatrist can quite manage to convey.
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If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.
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You walked in, laughing, tears welling confused, mingling in your throat. How can you be so many women to so many people, oh you strange girl?
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I do not fear it: I have been there.
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The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces.
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I am flushed and warm. I think I may be enormous, I am so stupidly happy, My wellingtons Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.
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I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead I lift my eyes and all is born again.
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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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Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses.
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The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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A skeptic, I would ask for consistency first of all.
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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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This seemed a dreary and wasted life for a girl with fifteen years of straight A's, but I knew that's what marriage was like, because cook and clean and wash was just what Buddy Willard's mother did from morning till night, and she was the wife of a university professor and had been a private school teacher herself.
Sylvia Plath