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The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone. She is used to this sort of thing. Her blacks crackle and drag.

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
Nothing
Bone
Thing
Drag
Staring
Bones
Moon
Darkness
Crackle
Sort
Blacks
Used
Hood

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Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.
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I have this demon who wants me to run away screaming if I am going to be flawed, fallible. It wants me to think I'm so good I must be perfect. Or nothing. I am, on the contrary, something: a being who gets tired, has shyness to fight, has more trouble than most facing people easily.
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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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I didn't really see why people should look at me. Plenty of people looked queerer than I did.
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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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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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I have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have.
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Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.
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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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I do not fear it: I have been there.
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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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So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.
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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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I am made, crudely, for success.
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we walk the plank with strangers.
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I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.
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I like people too much or not at all.
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The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time.
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It never occurred to me to say no.
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I hadn't, at the last moment, felt like washing off the two diagonal lines of dried blood that marked my cheeks. They seemed touching, and rather spectacular, and I thought I would carry them around with me, like the relic of a dead lover, till they wore off of their own accord.
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