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

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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 always has to end, doesn't it? We always have to separate.' 'Yes,' I said. He was insistent, 'But it doesn't always have to be that way. We could be together some day for always.' 'Oh, no,' I told him, wondering if he knew it was all over. 'We keep running till we die. We separate, get further apart, till we are dead.
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Let's face it: I'm scared, scared and frozen. First, I guess, I'm afraid for myself...the old primitive urge for survival. It's getting so I live every moment with terrible intensity.
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The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.
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Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
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I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.
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Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
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One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.
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I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
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Character is fate.
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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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