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Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.

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
Possible
Hours
Life
Hour
Becomes

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The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time.
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With that strange knowing that comes over me, like a clairvoyance, I know that I am sure of myself and my enormous and alarmingly timeless love for you which will always be.
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I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.
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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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I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man.
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Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.
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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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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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I want, I think, to be omniscient. I think I would like to call myself the girl who wanted to be God. Yet if I were not in this body where would I be-perhaps I am destined to be classified and qualified. But, oh, I cry out against it.
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Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?
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I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.
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Why do we electrocute men for murdering an individual and then pin a purple heart on them for mass slaughter of someone arbitrarily labeled “enemy?
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I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
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Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself.
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I must say that I am not very genteel and I feel that gentility has a stranglehold: the neatness, the wonderful tidiness, which is so evident everywhere in England is perhaps more dangerous than it would appear on the surface.
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I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.
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God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.
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I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.
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I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.
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Ironically, Henry James' biography comforts me & I long to make known to him his posthumous reputation he wrote, in pain, gave all his life (which is more than I could think of doing I have Ted, will have children but few friends) & the critics insulted & mocked him, readers didn't read him.
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