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I think if I had done anything else I would like to have been a doctor. This is the sort of polar opposition to being a writer, I suppose.

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
Done
Doctor
Would
Opposition
Think
Suppose
Thinking
Doctors
Like
Writer
Sort
Else
Anything
Polar

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I used to pray to recover you.
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We stayed at home to write, to consolidate our outstretched selves.
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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.
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Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it.
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I feel terribly vulnerable and 'not-myself' when I'm not writing.
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There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
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Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.
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I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly, as the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody I have nothing to do with explosions.
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I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together.
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Look at that ugly dead mask here and do not forget it. It is a chalk mask with dead dry poison behind it, like the death angel. It is what I was this fall, and what I never want to be again. The pouting disconsolate mouth, the flat, bored, numb, expressionless eyes: symptoms of the foul decay within.
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Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.
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Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.
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There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.
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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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…beating time along the edge of thought.
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I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn’t taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallowers’ sword and made me feel powerful and godlike.
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You walked in, laughing, tears welling confused, mingling in your throat. How can you be so many women to so many people, oh you strange girl?
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What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
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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.
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