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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
Feel
Fast
Feels
Discipline
Poetry
Turn
Small
Space
Turns
Away
Tyrannical

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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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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.
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Tomorrow is another day toward death.
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I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see, I swallow immediately. Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful.
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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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So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.
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Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
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...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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I have this demon who wants me to run away screaming if I am going to be flawed, fallible. It wants me to think I'm so good I must be perfect. Or nothing. I am, on the contrary, something: a being who gets tired, has shyness to fight, has more trouble than most facing people easily.
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Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those.
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One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.
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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 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.
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I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.
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I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
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What I didn't say was that each time I picked up a German dictionary or a German book, the very sight of those dense, black, barbed-wire letters made my mind shut like a clam.
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A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals.
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I couldn’t see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.
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I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrifying, like madness, being tortured...with an informed and intelligent mind.
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I hurl my heart to halt his pace.
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