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I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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
Become
Acutely
Granted
Aware
Taken
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.
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I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.
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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.
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I feel that very strongly: having been an academic, having been tempted by the invitation to stay on to become a Ph.D., a professor, and all that, one side of me certainly does respect all disciplines, as long as they don't ossify.
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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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I think I am worthwhile just because I have optical nerves and can try to put down what they perceive. What a fool!
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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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And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.
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I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.
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Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it
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I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates. He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greek movie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined it for both of us.
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I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.
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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 have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.
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I used to pray to recover you.
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Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.
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And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
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Winter is for women The woman still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanish walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.
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My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing.
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