Sylvia Plath Quotes - Page 2

I have stitched life into me like a rare organ

I saw the years of my life spaced along a road in the form of telephone poles threaded together by wires. I counted one, two, three... nineteen telephone poles, and then the wires dangled into space, and try as I would, I couldn't see a single pole beyond the nineteenth.

Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing- singing, laughing, learning.

Ready for a new life

I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.

Hurl yourself at goals above your head and bear the lacerations that come when you slip and make a fool of yourself. Try always, as long as you have breath in your body, to take the hard way–and work, work, work to build yourself into a rich, continually evolving entity.

The truth comes to me. The truth loves me.

I am not cruel -
only truthful.

I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery - air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, "This is what it is to be happy.

Is anyone anywhere happy?

I may never be happy, but tonight I am content.

From here to happiness is a road, flat, upright, distances in between blotted out by vision, yet realized by intelligence.

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 have a call.

I told him I believed in hell, and that certain people, like me, had to live in hell before they died, to make up for missing out on it after death, since they didn't believe in life after death, and what each person believed happened to him when he died.

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

The trouble about jumping was that if you didn't pick the right number of stories, you might still be alive when you hit bottom.

Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.

I’ll never speak to God again.

What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.

The night sky is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole-
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.