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

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If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.
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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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I am flushed and warm. I think I may be enormous, I am so stupidly happy, My wellingtons Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.
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Why honey, don't you want to get dressed? My mother took care never to tell me to do anything. She would only reason with me sweetly, like one intelligent, mature person with another. It's almost three in the afternoon. I'm writing a novel, I said. I haven't got time to change into this and change into that.
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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 couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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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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I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead I lift my eyes and all is born again.
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There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
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I hurl my heart to halt his pace.
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So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.
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Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.
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Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
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I could never be a complete scholar or a complete housewife ora completewriter: Imustcombinea little of all, and thereby be imperfect in all.
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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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I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.
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I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
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The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren. Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
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