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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.
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
Doctors
Resolutely
Everywhere
Yacht
Wife
Wives
Church
Mistress
Country
Sunday
People
Paradise
Yachts
Doctor
Seaside
Clubs
Mistresses
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Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.
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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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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.
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Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.
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I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
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If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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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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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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Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.
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I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly, as the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody I have nothing to do with explosions.
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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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I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print, the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig-tree.
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I opened the door and blinked out into the bright hall. I had the impression it wasn't night and it wasn't day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end.
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A skeptic, I would ask for consistency first of all.
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Don't let the wicked city get you down.
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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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After all, we are nothing more or less than we choose to reveal.
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I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off
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