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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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Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it, or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.
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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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I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.
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I don't know what started me, I just wrote poetry from the time was quite small. I guess I liked nursery rhymes and I guess I thought I could do the same thing. I wrote my first poem, my first published poem, when I was eight-and-a-half years old. It came out in The Boston Traveller and from then on, I suppose, I've been a bit of a professional.
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The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.
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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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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.
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Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person
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If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.
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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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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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August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
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What a man wants is a mate and what a woman wants is infinite security,’ and, ‘What a man is is an arrow into the future and a what a woman is is the place the arrow shoots off from.
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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.
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Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.
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A man's world is different from a woman's world and a man's emotions are different from a woman's emotions and only marriage can bring the two different sets of emotions together properly.
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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
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