Quotes from Sylvia Plath

to learn that you can never learn anything valid for truth, only momentary, transitory sayings that apply to you in your moment, your locality, and your present state of mind

I am terrified even to have known him, he makes all others mere puny fragments.

I need a father, I need a mother, I need some old, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God but the sky is empty.

Then I can write slowly, re-writing each chapter, carefully with a subtle structured style. If I can ever find a subtle structured style.

Only it would help my morale no end to feel it was a good novel.

But you will never take a walk. You will never be alone. And you hate him because he has deprived you of that: - - walks and aloneness. And you hate him because he is a boy.

with a voice like the thunder of God; a singer, story-teller, lion and world-wanderer & vagabond who will never stop.

But will do 5 pages a day until plodding I catch up. Use words as poet uses words. That is it! Gulley Jimson is an artist with words, too – – – or, rather Joyce Cary is. But I must be a word-artist. The

But no frown of mine Will betray the company I keep.

Perhaps that's why I want to be everyone - so no one can blame me for being I.

bare trees with black clots of rookeries

I felt what the 19th century romantics must have felt: The extension of the soul into the realm of nature.

Rüya görüyoruz ve rüyalar?m iyileÅŸiyor

Face it, kid: unless you can be yourself, you won't stay with anyone for long.

I wish I could have the ability to write down the feelings I have now while I'm still little, because when I grow up I will know how to write, but I will have forgotten what being little feels like.

Why does that green guck still spawn itself endlessly out of my head, dripping and clinging in my throat, my lungs, blocking in glutinous hunks behind my eyes: I feel sometimes I am blowing out the putrescent remains of my own decayed brains.

As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't. –

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

O, only left to myself, what a poet I will flay myself into.

Have you a capacity for love of someone beside yourself? I wonder, sometimes.

Each day demands we create our whole world over, disguising the constant horror in a coat of many-colored fictions; we mask out past in the green of Eden, pretend future's shining fruit can sprout from the navel of this present waste.

As an act recedes into the past and becomes imbedded in the network of one's individuality it seems more and more a product of fate – – inevitable. However, an act in the immediate present seems to be more a product of free will.

I felt if I didn't write nobody would accept me as a human being. Writing, then, was a substitute for myself: if you don't love me, love my writing and love me for my writing. It is also much more: a way of ordering and reordering the chaos of experience.

Writing on the side (she says ambitiously.) But to write you have to live, don't you?