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

More quotes by Sylvia Plath

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A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.
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I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
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Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.
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Is anyone anywhere happy?
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I do not love I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.
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Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.
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We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.
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I dream too much, work too little.
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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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Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing.
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I am myself. That is not enough.
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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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It is best to meet in a cul-de-sac, A palace of velvet With windows of mirrors. There one is safe, There are no family photographs, No rings through the nose, no cries.
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I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
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Winter is for women The woman still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanish walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.
Sylvia Plath
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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.
Sylvia Plath
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Then I thought, No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.
Sylvia Plath
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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
Sylvia Plath
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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.
Sylvia Plath
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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.
Sylvia Plath