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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
Much
Love
Life
Learn
Hard

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If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
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I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off.
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Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those.
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I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.
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I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.
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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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I have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.
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Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.
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It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.
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After all, we are nothing more or less than we choose to reveal.
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Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.
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For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.
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I think that as far as language goes I'm an American, I'm afraid, my accent is American, my way of talk is an American way of talk, I'm an old-fashioned American. That's probably one of the reasons why I'm in England now and why I'll always stay in England.
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And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
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But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defensless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.
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Eternity bores me, I never wanted it.
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I must get my soul back from you I am killing my flesh without it.
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They would grow old. They would forget me.
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But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.
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