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In spite of everything, I still have my good old sense of humor.

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
Sense
Stills
Still
Everything
Good
Spite
Humor

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What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid.
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I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
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Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.
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It never occurred to me to say no.
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We know a thing by its opposite corollary hot by having experienced cold good by having decided what is bad love by hate.
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I need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.
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The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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As I lay on my back in bed staring up at the blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger until I felt my eardrums would burst with it.
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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 am too pure for you or anyone.
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I've got to have something. I want to stop it all, the whole monumental grotesque joke, before it's too late. But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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Not being perfect hurts.
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Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: 'I'll go take a hot bath.
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She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.
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All the heat and fear had purged itself. I felt surprisingly at peace. The bell jar hung suspended a few feet above my head. I was open to the circulating air.
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Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.
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Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
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I wonder about all the roads not taken and am moved to quote Frost...but won't. It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me.
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If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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