There are sleeps that are born of spring and of the slumbering hibernation of bears in leaf-hushed caves.
People are happy - if that means being content with your lot. I am not content, because my lot is limiting, as are all others.
There is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness with a human being who believes in the same basic principles.
I felt wise and cynical as all hell.
I am exhausted, I am exhausted - pillar of white in a blackout of knives. I am the magician’s girl who does not flinch.
I am living now in a kind of present hell, and god knows what ceremonies of life or love can patch the havoc wrought.
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.).
It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
I want to become acutely aware of all I've taken for granted.
It's a hell of a responsibility to be yourself. It's much easier to be somebody else or nobody at all.
All I want is blackness. Blackness and silence.
What solace can be struck from rock to make heart’s waste grow green again? Who’d walk in this bleak place?
Feathered dark in thought, I stalk like a rook, brooding as the winter night comes on.
I sometimes think my vision of the sea is the clearest thing I own.
Dry frost glazes the window of my hurt.
I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.
Let there be continuity - a core of consistency - even if your philosophy must be always a moving dynamic dialectic.
I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me; all day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall. It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long I think it is a part of my heart.
I must stop identifying with the seasons, because this English winter will be the death of me.
Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those.
It is so beautiful to have no attachments! I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
There are ways and ways to have a love affair. Above all, one must not be serious about it.
When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It's gone forever.
The woman is perfected. Her dead body wears the smile of accomplishment.
Why, instead of going to bed in the kindly, erotic dark, do I sit up later and lash my brains into cold calculating thought?
I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, hating myself, hating and fearing.
The New Yorker's rejection letter to Sylvia Plath, 1962 pic.twitter.com/4wxnNDnBm1
I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.
I feel violets sprouting between my fingers and forsythia twining in my hair and violins and bells sounding wherever I walk.
All night I have dreamed of destruction, annihilations.
Winter dawn is the color of metal, the trees stiffen into place like burnt nerves.
I have experienced love, sorrow, madness, and if I cannot make these experiences meaningful, no new experience can help me.
It gives me such a sense of peace to draw; more than prayer, walks, anything. I can close myself completely in the line, lose myself in it.
The quest of time past is more difficult than you think, and time present is eaten up by such plaintive searchings.
Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.
Darkness wipes me out like chalk on a blackboard. I don’t know a thing.
She is in love with the beautiful formlessness of the sea.
Widow. The word consumes itself.
We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.
Reality is relative, depending on what lens you look through.
The 10 best dead people to follow on Twitter: fw.to/M2I4iwf
Slowly we will walk through green gardens and marvel at this strange and sweet world.
Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.
Each day demands we create our whole world over, disguising the constant horror in a coat of many-colored fictions.
In the morning light, all is possible; even becoming a god.
Sylvia Plath makes it to #4 in The Times' 50 People You Should Follow on Twitter list pic.twitter.com/DNfICYdq0b
Out of the ash I rise with my red hair. And I eat men like air.