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 saw the days of the year stretching ahead like a series of bright, white boxes, and separating one box from another was sleep, like a black shade. Only for me, the long perspective of shades that set off one box from the next day had suddenly snapped up, and I could see day after day after day glaring ahead of me like a white, broad, infinitely desolate avenue.
There ought, I thought, to be a ritual for being born twice - patched, retreaded and approved for the road.
And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.
Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.
Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
It is a terrible thing to be so open: it is as if my heart put on a face and walked into the world.
Remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it. I want to become acutely aware of all I’ve taken for granted.
Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
Is there no way out of the mind?
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.
How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.
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
Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.