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A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion an insight like the flight of birds.

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
Bird
Realist
Call
Brief
Real
Dreamer
Like
Fierce
Birds
Flight
Realists
Insight
Dreamers
Illusion
Fusion

More quotes by Sylvia Plath

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If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
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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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Talking about my fears to others feeds it.
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When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It's gone forever.
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I didn't really see why people should look at me. Plenty of people looked queerer than I did.
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Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.
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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print, the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig-tree.
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Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.
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That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. Save them for my funeral, I'd said.
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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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Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
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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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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person
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The slime of all my yesterdays rots in the hollow of my skull.
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Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.
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I'm about fifty years behind as far as my preferences go and I must say that the poets who excite me most are the Americans. There are very few contemporary English poets that I admire.
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How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
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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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