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I think I am worthwhile just because I have optical nerves and can try to put down what they perceive. What a fool!

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
Optical
Nerves
Worthwhile
Perceive
Fool
Trying
Think
Thinking

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The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.
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And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness
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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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Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those.
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I knew chemistry would be worse, because I'd seen a big card of the ninety-odd elements hung up in the chemistry lab, and all the perfectly good words like gold and silver and cobalt and aluminum were shortened to ugly abbreviations with different decimal numbers after them.
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I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.
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Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?
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Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing- singing, laughing, learning.
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I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.
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Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.
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At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do.
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Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.
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Ash, ash —- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
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One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.
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Is there no way out of the mind?
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.
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I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.
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It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.
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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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I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free—— The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
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