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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.

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
Small
Space
Away
Feel
Tyrannical
Feels
Burn
Fast
Discipline
Poetry

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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrifying, like madness, being tortured...with an informed and intelligent mind.
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The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
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I am myself. That is not enough.
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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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What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.
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It was sometime in October she had long ago lost track of all the days and it really didn’t matter because one was like another and there were no nights to separate them because she never slept any more.
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To learn and think to think and live to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.
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Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.
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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
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I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
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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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There is more than one good way to drown.
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A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.
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We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.
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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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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 easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it.
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You ask me why I spend my life writing? Do I find entertainment? Is it worthwhile? Above all, does it pay? If not, then, is there a reason?... I write only because there is a voice within me. That will not be still.
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