Quote

I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.

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
Young
Snowfall
Firsts
Overhead
First
Gifts
Children
Spring
Think
Poet
Thinking
Coming
Stars
Child

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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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Then I thought, No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.
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A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.
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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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Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.
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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 dead to them, even though I once flowered.
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How we need another soul to cling to.
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Is there no way out of the mind?
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For me, poetry is an evasion of the real job of writing prose.
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I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
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I feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.
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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 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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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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You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.
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…beating time along the edge of thought.
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The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.
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Love set you going like a fat gold watch. The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.
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They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
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