Sylvia Plath
Sylvia Plath
Sylvia Plathwas one of the most renowned and influential poets, novelists, and short story writers of the 20th century. Born in Boston, Massachusetts, she studied at Smith College and Newnham College at the University of Cambridge before receiving acclaim as a poet and writer. She was married to fellow poet Ted Hughes from 1956 until they separated in September of 1962. They lived together in the United States and then the United Kingdom and had two children, Frieda and Nicholas...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth27 October 1932
CountryUnited States of America
I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
I have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have.
At this rate, I'd be lucky if I wrote a page a day. Then I knew what the problem was. I needed experience. How could I write about life when I'd never had a love affair or a baby or even seen anybody die? A girl I knew had just won a prize for a short story about her adventures among the pygmies in Africa. How could I compete with that sort of thing?
It is as if my life were magically run by two electric currents: joyous positive and despairing negative--which ever is running at the moment dominates my life, floods it.
The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I'm neurotic as hell.
Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it
Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person
I am gone quite mad with the knowledge of accepting the overwhelming number of things I can never know, places I can never go, and people I can never be.
We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.
Wear your heart on your skin in this life.
Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.
Your room is not your prison. You are.