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I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.

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
Perhaps
Novel
Find
Life
Intense
Certainly

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I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
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I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.
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I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.
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I had hoped, at my departure, I would feel sure and knowledgeable about everything that lay ahead -- after all, I had been analyzed. Instead, all I could see were question marks.
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Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.
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The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life.
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…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.
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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 silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
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I hurl my heart to halt his pace.
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Dancing is the normal prelude to intercourse.
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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.
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I wonder why I don't go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.
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That’s one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.
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To look at her, you might not guess that inside she is laughing and crying, at her own stupidities and luckiness, and at the strange enigmatic ways of the world which she will spend lifetime trying to learn and understand.
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I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
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When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It's gone forever.
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I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
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All the heat and fear had purged itself. I felt surprisingly at peace. The bell jar hung suspended a few feet above my head. I was open to the circulating air.
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