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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.

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
Coffee
Brightens
Embryonic
Visibly
Juice
Orange
Suicide

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I dream too much, work too little.
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I do not love I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.
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The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed.
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I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.
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Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.
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I want to taste and glory in each day, and never be afraid to experience pain and never shut myself up in a numb core of nonfeeling, or stop questioning and criticizing life and take the easy way out. 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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The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren. Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
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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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I am still so naïve I know pretty much what I like and dislike but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?
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What I cannot forgive is dishonesty - and no matter what, or how hard, I would rather know the truth of which I today had such a clear & devastating vision from his mouth than hear foul evasions, blurrings and rattiness.
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Not being perfect hurts.
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What is so real as the cry of a child?
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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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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.
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You are a dream I hope I never meet you.
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I have this demon who wants me to run away screaming if I am going to be flawed, fallible. It wants me to think I'm so good I must be perfect. Or nothing. I am, on the contrary, something: a being who gets tired, has shyness to fight, has more trouble than most facing people easily.
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Winning or losing an argument, receiving an acceptance or rejection, is no proof of the validity or value of personal identity. One may be wrong, mistaken, or a poor craftsman, or just ignorant - but this is no indication of the true worth of one's total human identity: past, present and future!
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I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, This is what it is to be happy.
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