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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.

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
Lose
Loses
Must
Scrambled
Men
Flicker
Sensitivity
Pale
Eggs
Cooking

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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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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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Then I thought, No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.
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I collect men with interesting names.
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The sky leans on me, me, the one upright among all horizontals.
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I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.
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I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.
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See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
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Character is fate.
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Miracles occur, If you dare to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.
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I get into a rut, unable to yank my mind out of it.
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I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb.
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