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I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.

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
Learn
Hard
Much
Love
Life

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I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.
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No, I won't try to escape myself by losing myself in artificial chatter 'Did you have a nice vacation?' 'Oh, yes, and you?' I'll stay here and try to pin that loneliness down.
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If you expect nothing from anybody, you’re never disappointed.
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I may have made a straight A in physics, but I was panic-struck. Physics made me sick the whole time I learned it.
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I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.
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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.
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I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly, as the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody I have nothing to do with explosions.
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It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)
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Don't let the wicked city get you down.
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Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel. That would fix a lot of people.
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To learn and think to think and live to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.
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The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.
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The moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, white and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
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I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
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But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.
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I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.
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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
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I am still so naïve I know pretty much what I like and dislike but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?
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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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