Plath Quotes

Plath Quote of the day

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.

So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.

My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you.

There is no better way to know us Than as two wolves, come separately to a wood.

I have stitched life into me like a rare organ

Writing, then, was a substitute for myself: if you don't love me, love my writing & love me for my writing. It is also much more: a way of ordering and reordering the chaos of experience.

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

I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.

The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.

Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.

When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.

You marvel at the economy and this choice of words. How many ways can you describe the sky and the moon? After Sylvia Plath, what can you say?

Sylvia Plath was just a month and a half older than I, and when she committed suicide I was only 30 - and very shocked and sorry. I never knew her personally.

Augustine, Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath are confessional writers and all three make me sick. I have nothing in common with them.

Come on, man.... Hemingway, Sexton, Plath, Woolf. You can't kill yourself before you're even published.

I remember coming upon Philip Larkin in my 20s in the early '60s and when Sylvia Plath's "Ariel" came out it knocked me off my feet.

She looked terrible, but very wise.

I don't know how long I kept at it...I felt reasonably safe, streched out on the floor, and lay quite still.It didn't seem to be summer any more

We are not what we might be

It was comforting to know I had fallen and could fall no farther.

The pity is not that there is a myth of Sylvia Plath but that the myth is not simply that of an enormously gifted poet whose death came carelessly, by mistake, and too soon.

I wished I hadn’t majored in women filling their pockets with stones and sticking their heads into ovens. Maybe tomorrow the pinhole would widen and I would want to be a marine biologist.

Writing sharpens life

I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full.

My mind is killing me”— The Glass Child, Stuck In My Mind

We have conversations most nights, Sylvia Plath and me. On these cold wintry nights with our coffee mugs in hand, we talk for hours and hours, Sylvia Plath and me!

Sylvia Plath and I met a long time ago. A really long time ago. Was it a summer day? No! It was a wintry November morning!

We have conversations with each other most nights - Sylvia Plath and me!

Maybe if I could slip into Sylvia's mind, sort out the spices in her rack, alphabetize them and dust them off. Maybe then I'd understand how it's the little things that pull you under.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead

Not easy to state the change you made.If I'm alive now, I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it.

Even amongst fierce flames/ The golden lotus can be planted.

I must get my soul back from you