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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
Feels
Burn
Fast
Discipline
Poetry
Small
Space
Away
Feel
Tyrannical

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When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.
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You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.
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I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off.
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I feel that very strongly: having been an academic, having been tempted by the invitation to stay on to become a Ph.D., a professor, and all that, one side of me certainly does respect all disciplines, as long as they don't ossify.
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There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.
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The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time.
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I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.
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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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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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I used to pray to recover you.
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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.
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Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.
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I am what I feel and think and do.
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Dancing is the normal prelude to intercourse.
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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.
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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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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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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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