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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
Suicide
Coffee
Brightens
Embryonic
Visibly
Juice
Orange

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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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Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.
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There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.
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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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Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
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If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.
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There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.
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I decided I would put off the novel until I had gone to Europe and had a lover, and that I would never learn a word of shorthand. If I never learned shorthand I would never have to use it.
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One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.
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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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Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.
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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.
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I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.
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As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.
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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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As from a star I saw, coldly and soberly, the separateness of everything. I felt the wall of my skin I am I. That stone is a stone. My beautiful fusion with the things of this world was over.
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I didn't really see why people should look at me. Plenty of people looked queerer than I did.
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I am myself. That is not enough.
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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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