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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
Men
Flicker
Sensitivity
Pale
Eggs
Cooking
Lose
Loses
Must
Scrambled

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we walk the plank with strangers.
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I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.
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I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.
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I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.
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I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
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I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn’t taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallowers’ sword and made me feel powerful and godlike.
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When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.
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Pretty soon, the only doubt in my mind was the precise time and method of committing suicide. The only alternative I could see was an eternity of hell for the rest of my life in a mental hospital, and I was going to use my last ounce of free choice and choose a quick clean ending.
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Not being perfect hurts.
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If only a group of people were more important to me than the idea of a Novel, I might begin a novel.
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As I lay on my back in bed staring up at the blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger until I felt my eardrums would burst with it.
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Let's face it: I'm scared, scared and frozen. First, I guess, I'm afraid for myself...the old primitive urge for survival. It's getting so I live every moment with terrible intensity.
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So I began to think maybe it was true that when you were married and had children it was like being brainwashed, and afterward you went about as numb as a slave in a totalitarian state.
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In this particular tub, two knees jut up like icebergs, while minute brown hairs rise on arms and legs in a fringe of kelp green soap navigates the tidal slosh of seas breaking on legendary beaches in faith we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.
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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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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.
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But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
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