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I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.
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
Thinking
Emotional
Knife
Whatever
Informed
Cannot
Knives
Come
Poems
Sympathise
Nothing
Immediately
Sensuous
Must
Experiences
Needle
Heart
Cry
Needles
Think
Except
Cries
More quotes by Sylvia Plath
I had always imagined myself hitching up on to my elbows on the delivery table after it was all over - dead white, of course, with no makeup and from the awful ordeal, but smiling and radiant, with my hair down to my waist, and reaching out for my first little squirmy child and saying its name, whatever it was.
Sylvia Plath
What I want back is what I was Before the bed, before the knife, Before the brooch-pin and the salve Fixed me in this parenthesis Horses fluent in the wind, A place, a time gone out of mind.
Sylvia Plath
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.
Sylvia Plath
The moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, white and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
Sylvia Plath
To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.
Sylvia Plath
A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
Sylvia Plath
How can I tell Bob that my happiness streams from having wrenched a piece out of my life, a piece of hurt and beauty, and transformed it to typewritten words on paper? How can he know I am justifying my life, my keen emotions, my feeling, by turning it into print?
Sylvia Plath
I do not fear it: I have been there.
Sylvia Plath
There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.
Sylvia Plath
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.
Sylvia Plath
The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
Sylvia Plath
Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.
Sylvia Plath
Then I thought, No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.
Sylvia Plath
If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
Sylvia Plath
Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?
Sylvia Plath
I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
Sylvia Plath
I may have made a straight A in physics, but I was panic-struck. Physics made me sick the whole time I learned it.
Sylvia Plath
I lay in that tub on the seventeenth floor of this hotel for-women-only, high up over the jazz and push of New York, for near unto an hour, and I felt myself growing pure again. I don't believe in baptism or the waters of Jordan or anything like that, but I guess I feel about a hot bath the way those religious people feel about holy water.
Sylvia Plath
I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
Sylvia Plath
August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
Sylvia Plath