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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrific, like madness, being tortured, this sort of experience, and one should be able to manipulate these experiences with an informed and an intelligent mini.

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
Sort
Tortured
Experience
Manipulate
Able
Informed
Even
Terrific
Believe
Madness
Like
Experiences
Intelligent
Control
Mini

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It never occurred to me to say no.
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I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.
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Winning or losing an argument, receiving an acceptance or rejection, is no proof of the validity or value of personal identity. One may be wrong, mistaken, or a poor craftsman, or just ignorant - but this is no indication of the true worth of one's total human identity: past, present and future!
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You smile. No, it is not fatal.
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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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Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.
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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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I am still raw. I say I may be back. You know what lies are for. Even in your Zen heaven we shan't meet.
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I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.
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O heart, such disorganization!
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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?
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I had imagined a kind, ugly, intuitive man looking up and say, 'Ah!' in an encouraging way, as if he could see something I couldn't, and then I would find words to tell him how I was so scared, as if I were being stuffed farther and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out.
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One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.
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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.
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If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad.
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God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.
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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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