Sylvia Plath Quotes

I have stitched life into me like a rare organ

I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.

The box is only temporary.

Don't let the wicked city get you down.

I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.

The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm

All I want is blackness. Blackness and silence.

If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.

I want so obviously, so desperately to be loved, and to be capable of love.

Good to know that if I ever need attention all I have to do is die.

Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?

Here I am, a bundle of past recollections and future dreams, knotted up in a reasonably attractive bundle of flesh. I remember what this flesh has gone through; I dream of what it may go through.

I am dead to them, even though I once flowered.

The abstract kills, the concrete saves.

I love people. Everybody. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection. Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me.

I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.

I smile, now, thinking: we all like to think we are important enough to need psychiatrists

Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.

I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me.

I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn’t taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallowers’ sword and made me feel powerful and godlike.

There is something demoralizing about watching two people get more and more crazy about each other, especially when you are the only extra person in the room.

Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams.

Cheers for spring; for life; for a growing soul.

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free.

A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.

The woman is perfected. Her dead Body wears the smile of accomplishment.

... 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.

Winter is for women The woman still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanish walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.

When I fell out of the light, I entered The stomach of indifference, the wordless cupboard.

A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife.

Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship but the loneliness of the soul in its appalling self-consciousness is horrible and overpowering.

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

I was supposed to be having the time of my life.

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression Of something beautiful, but annihilating.

Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.

The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.

Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.

I want to be important. By being different. And these girls are all the same.

See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

I am what I feel and think and do.

I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.

Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.

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.

I drink sherry and wine by myself because I like it and I get the sensuous feeling of indulgence...luxury, bliss, erotic-tinged.

I felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I always do the day after Christmas.

I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.

Worse even than your maddening song, your silence.

The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren. Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.