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Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.

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
Make
Roses
Jealousy
Rose
Blood
Open
Black

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The box is only temporary.
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I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.
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Sunday-the doctor's paradise! Doctors at country clubs, doctors at the seaside, doctors with mistresses, doctors with wives, doctors in church, doctors in yachts, doctors everywhere resolutely being people, not doctors.
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
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I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
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I don't know what started me, I just wrote poetry from the time was quite small. I guess I liked nursery rhymes and I guess I thought I could do the same thing. I wrote my first poem, my first published poem, when I was eight-and-a-half years old. It came out in The Boston Traveller and from then on, I suppose, I've been a bit of a professional.
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I'm happier writing about doctors than I would have been being one.
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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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I like people, but to learn about one individual always appeals to me more than anything.
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But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.
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If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, for as long as I possibly could.
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Over coffee and orange juice the embryonic suicide brightens visibly.
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And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
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Read widely of others' experiences, even if it'd be more comfortable to snuggle back in the comforting cotton-wool of blissful ignorance.
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A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion an insight like the flight of birds.
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I am too pure for you or anyone.
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I wish you’d find the exit out of my head.
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As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.
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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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