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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.

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
Writing
Letters
Much
Jokes
Something
Late
Good
Seem
Stop
Monumental
Doesn
Grotesque
Seems
Poems
Whole
Joke

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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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I felt very low. I had been unmasked only that morning by Jay Cee herself, and I felt now that all the uncomfortable suspicions I had about myself were coming true. After nineteen years of running after good marks and prizes and grants of one sort and another, I was letting up, slowing down, dropping clean out of race.
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It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
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There was a beautiful time.
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Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.
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A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
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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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I have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.
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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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I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.
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And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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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 lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.
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And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
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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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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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And I identify too closely with my reading, with my writing.
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