Sylvia Plath Quotes

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 can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.

Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.

And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.

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

Remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it. I want to become acutely aware of all I’ve taken for granted.

Is there no way out of the mind?

I talk to God but the sky is empty.

What did my arms do before they held you?

How we need another soul to cling to.

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

I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.

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

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.

I have stitched life into me like a rare organ

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’ve a call.

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

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

If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I’m neurotic as hell. I’ll be flying back and forth between one mutually exclusive thing and another for the rest of my days.

But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.

I am too pure for you or anyone.

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

Widow. The word consumes itself.

How frail the human heart must be – a mirrored pool of thought.

The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.

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