Quotes from Sylvia Plath

Waiting for the right wonderful person is so much more important than getting the outer comforts of marriage at an early age.

I need someone real, who will be right for me now, here, and soon. Until then I'm lost. I think I am mad at times.

Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call. It's easy enough to do it in a cell. It's easy enough to do it and stay put. It's the theatrical

How clever of them, I thought. They kept the feeling all secret; they wouldn't even let you write it down.

In March I'll be rested, caught up and human

Someday, god knows when, I will stop this absurd, self-pitying, idle, futile despair, and I will begin to think again.

And now you try Your handful of notes; The clear vowels rise like balloons.

I don't know what I ate, but I felt immensely better after the first mouthful. It occurred to me that my vision of the fig-tree and all the fat figs that withered and fell to the earth might well have arisen from the profound void of an empty stomach.

Unless you can be yourself, you won't stay with anyone for long. You've got to be able to talk. Spend your nights learning, so you'll have something to say. Something the attractive intelligent man will want to listen to.

I felt purged and holy and ready for a new life.

And times there are when you feel very wise and ageless. You are sunning on the rocks, the water splashing at your feet, when a small chubby freckle faced girl of about ten approaches you, her hand holding something that is invisible, but evidently quite precious. 'Do you know,' she asks earnestly, 'do starfish like hot or cold water best?

I can't take things as they come, or make them come as I choose.

We danced about a mile apart the whole time, until during "Auld Lang Syne" he suddenly rested his chin on the top of my head as if he were very tired.

I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love.

Why can't I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which one fits me and is most becoming?

It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get at.

I walk, talking to the moon, to the neutral impersonal force that does not hear, but merely accepts my being. And does not smite me down.

Kiss me and you will see how important I am.

Wondering how human beings can suffer their individualities to be mercilessly crushed under a machine-like dictatorship - be it of industry, state or organization - all their lives long.

saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

An unfinished feeling.

I felt very happy. To think that I didn't have to torture myself sitting in a smoke-filled room with a painted party smile, watching my date get drunk

My dream was one day ordering a drink and finding out it tasted wonderful.

What ceremony of words can patch the havoc?