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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.

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
Would
Surface
Tidiness
England
Stranglehold
Perhaps
Genteel
Dangerous
Gentility
Wonderful
Neatness
Feel
Evident
Must
Appear
Feels
Everywhere

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Why honey, don't you want to get dressed? My mother took care never to tell me to do anything. She would only reason with me sweetly, like one intelligent, mature person with another. It's almost three in the afternoon. I'm writing a novel, I said. I haven't got time to change into this and change into that.
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I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.
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My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.
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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've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off
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To learn and think to think and live to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.
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It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles.
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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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I am what I feel and think and do.
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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In this particular tub, two knees jut up like icebergs, while minute brown hairs rise on arms and legs in a fringe of kelp green soap navigates the tidal slosh of seas breaking on legendary beaches in faith we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.
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The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone. She is used to this sort of thing. Her blacks crackle and drag.
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But I am I now and so many other millions are so irretrievably their own special variety of 'I' that I can hardly bear to think of it. I: how firm a letter how reassuring the three strokes: one vertical, proud and assertive, and then the two short horizontal lines in quick, smug succession. The pen scratching on the paper…I…I…I…I…I…I.
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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 feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.
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So I kiss him, and there is the great dark sea ahead.
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One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.
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What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid.
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I have stitched life into me like a rare organ
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No, I won't try to escape myself by losing myself in artificial chatter 'Did you have a nice vacation?' 'Oh, yes, and you?' I'll stay here and try to pin that loneliness down.
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