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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrifying, like madness, being tortured...with an informed and intelligent mind.

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
Mind
Manipulate
Believe
Informed
Like
Madness
Experiences
Intelligent
Control
Able
Tortured
Even
Terrifying

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I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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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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I may have made a straight A in physics, but I was panic-struck. Physics made me sick the whole time I learned it.
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I am not cruel, only truthful.
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What I hate is the thought of being under a man's thumb, I had told Doctor Nolan. A man doesn't have a worry in the world, while I've got a baby hanging over my head like a big stick, to keep me in line.
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Why do we electrocute men for murdering an individual and then pin a purple heart on them for mass slaughter of someone arbitrarily labeled “enemy?
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I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.
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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline, you've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space that you've just got to turn away all the peripherals.
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Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.
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God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.
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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.
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I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.
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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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I had always imagined myself hitching up on to my elbows on the delivery table after it was all over - dead white, of course, with no makeup and from the awful ordeal, but smiling and radiant, with my hair down to my waist, and reaching out for my first little squirmy child and saying its name, whatever it was.
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It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)
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I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.
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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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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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The hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted & spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.
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