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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.

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
Back
Crawl
Womb
Escape
Kill

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I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, This is what it is to be happy.
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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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For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.
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I wonder why I don't go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.
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Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.
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There was a beautiful time.
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I need the reality of other people, work, to fulfill myself. Must never become a mere mother and housewife.
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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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O heart, such disorganization!
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It's the living, the eating, the sleeping that everyone needs. Ideas don't matter so much after all. My three best friends are Catholic. I can't see their beliefs, but I can see the things they love to do on earth. When you come right down to it, I do believe in the freedom of the individual.
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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They would grow old. They would forget me.
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I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates. He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greek movie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined it for both of us.
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I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.
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For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.
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I am I-I am powerful, but to what extent? I am I.
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Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.
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And you grit your teeth, despising yourself for your tremulous sensitivity, and wondering how human beings can suffer their individualities to be mercilessly crushed under a machinelike dictatorship, be it of industry, state or organization, all their lives long.
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I had hoped, at my departure, I would feel sure and knowledgeable about everything that lay ahead -- after all, I had been analyzed. Instead, all I could see were question marks.
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