Quotes from Sylvia Plath

God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.

Your body Hurts me as the world hurts God

God, it was good to let go, let the tight mask fall off, and the bewildered, chaotic fragments pour out. It was the purge, the catharsis.

God has to remind us this isn't heaven by a long shot, so he increases the radios and lethal flies.

Please don't expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.

I have felt great advances in my poetry, the main one being a growing victory over word nuances and a superfluity of adjectives.

If I didn't think, I'd be much happier.

... stop trying to get me to write about 'decent courageous people' -- read the Ladies' Home Journal for those! ... I believe in going through and facing the worst, not hiding from it.

You are a dream; I hope I never meet you.

What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.

I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.

There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.

Do we always grind through the present, doomed to throw a gold haze of fond retrospect over the past?

And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.

I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.

Read widely of others' experiences, even if it'd be more comfortable to snuggle back in the comforting cotton-wool of blissful ignorance.

The one man in the room who was as big as his poems, huge, with hulk and dynamic chunks of words.

The sea was our main entertainment. When company came, we set them before it on rugs, with thermoses and sandwiches and colored umbrellas, as if the water - blue, green, gray, navy or silver as it might be - were enough to watch.

Is there no way out of the mind?

I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have.

There is something suspect, especially in America, about people who don't have ten-year plans for a career or at least a regular job.

I talk to God but the sky is empty.

Can a selfish egocentric jealous and unimaginative female write a damn thing worthwhile?

I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.