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Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.

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
Tombstone
Planted
Fierce
Flames
Golden
Even
Lotuses
Lotus
Amidst

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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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Outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass.
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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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What did my arms do before they held you?
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When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, lying in the tup and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank into sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.
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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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Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
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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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I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.
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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
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It was sometime in October she had long ago lost track of all the days and it really didn’t matter because one was like another and there were no nights to separate them because she never slept any more.
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August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
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I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
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As I lay on my back in bed staring up at the blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger until I felt my eardrums would burst with it.
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I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, This is what it is to be happy.
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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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So learn about life. Cut yourself a big slice with the silver server, a big slice of pie. Open your eyes. Let life happen.
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Talking about my fears to others feeds it.
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A man's world is different from a woman's world and a man's emotions are different from a woman's emotions and only marriage can bring the two different sets of emotions together properly.
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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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