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Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline, you've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space that you've just got to turn away all the peripherals.

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
Poetry
Turn
Small
Space
Turns
Away
Tyrannical
Feel
Fast
Feels
Discipline

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But everybody has exactly the same smiling frightened face, with the look that says: I'm important. If you only get to know me, you will see how important I am. Look into my eyes. Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.
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As from a star I saw, coldly and soberly, the separateness of everything. I felt the wall of my skin I am I. That stone is a stone. My beautiful fusion with the things of this world was over.
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I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.
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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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There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.
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Miracles occur, If you dare to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.
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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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She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.
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I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
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And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness
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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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I am not cruel, only truthful.
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We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.
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I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.
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There is a certain clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get.
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And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
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Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses.
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What a man wants is a mate and what a woman wants is infinite security,’ and, ‘What a man is is an arrow into the future and a what a woman is is the place the arrow shoots off from.
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