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O heart, such disorganization!

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
Disorganization
Heart

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I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
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I must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.
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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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I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.
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In spite of everything, I still have my good old sense of humor.
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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 think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.
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Read widely of others' experiences, even if it'd be more comfortable to snuggle back in the comforting cotton-wool of blissful ignorance.
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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.
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Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.
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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 you grit your teeth, despising yourself for your tremulous sensitivity, and wondering how human beings can suffer their individualities to be mercilessly crushed under a machinelike dictatorship, be it of industry, state or organization, all their lives long.
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I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.
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A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
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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 just got to turn away all the peripherals.
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Dancing is the normal prelude to intercourse.
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Sunday-the doctor's paradise! Doctors at country clubs, doctors at the seaside, doctors with mistresses, doctors with wives, doctors in church, doctors in yachts, doctors everywhere resolutely being people, not doctors.
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