Quotes from Sylvia Plath

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

Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses.

I deserve that, don't I, some sort of blazing love that I can live with.

We know a thing by its opposite corollary; hot by having experienced cold; good by having decided what is bad; love by hate.

I, love, I am the pure acetylene virgin attended by roses.

Kiss me and you will see how important I am.

What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid. I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want.

Please, I want so badly for the good things to happen.

When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know. "Oh, sure you know," the photographer said. "She wants," said Jay Cee wittily, "to be everything.

Now and then, when I grow nostalgic about my ocean childhood - the wauling of gulls and the smell of salt, somebody solicitous will bundle me into a car and drive me to the nearest briny horizon.

For a time, I believed not in God nor Santa Claus, but in mermaids. They seemed as logical and possible to me as the brittle twig of a seahorse in the zoo aquarium or the skates lugged up on the lines of cursing Sunday fishermen - skates the shape of old pillowslips with the full, coy lips of women.

I like you, but not too much. I don't want to like anybody too much.

How we need another soul to cling to.

Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far so fast in such a small space; you've got to burn away all the peripherals.

I felt proud that the baby's first real adventure should be as a protest against the insanity of world annihilation. Already a certain percentage of unborn children are doomed by fallout, and no one knows the cumulative effects of what is already poisoning the air and sea.

Why do we electrocute men for murdering an individual and then pin a purple heart on them for mass slaughter of someone arbitrarily labeled "enemy?

In the German tongue, in the Polish townScraped flat by the rollerOf wars, wars, wars ...

I have always been scared of you,With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.And your neat mustacheAnd your Aryan eye, bright blue.Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You—

What a thrill—My thumb instead of an onion.

I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.

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.

because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.

There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.

A living doll, everywhere you look.It can sew, it can cook,It can talk, talk, talk….My boy, it's your last resort.Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.