“Its snaky acids kiss. It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults That kill, that kill, that kill.” — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
The door of the novel, like the door of the poem, also shuts. But not so fast, nor with such manic, unanswerable… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip: After a… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
I do feel that now and I feel that this development of recording poems, of speaking poems at readings, of having records… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“The night sky is only a sort of carbon paper, Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars Letting in the light, peephole… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“Do you know what a poem is, Esther?' No, what?' I would say. A piece of dust.' Then, just as he was… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
I'm about fifty years behind as far as my preferences go and I must say that the poets who excite me most… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“They are good evidence to prove that poems which seem often to be constructed of arbitrary surreal symbols are really impassioned reorganizations… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“O my Homunculus, I am ill. I have taken a pill to kill The thin Papery feeling. From the poem "Cut", 24 October 1962” — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have. — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
I always was interested in prose. As a teenager, I published short stories. And I always wanted to write the long short… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it --from "Elm", written 19 April 1962” — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
I do not want a plain box, I want a sarcophagus With tigery stripes, and a face on it Round as the… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. --From the poem "Lady Lazarus", written 23-29… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“Paralytic It happens. Will it go on? ---- My mind a rock, No fingers to grip, no tongue, My god the iron… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“I am too pure for you or anyone. From the poem "Fever 103°", 20 October 1962” — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“Love is the bone and sinew of my curse. --from "Poem For A Birthday - The Stones", written 1959” — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
I have felt great advances in my poetry, the main one being a growing victory over word nuances and a superfluity of… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“Stars open among the lilies. Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens? This is the silence of astounded souls. --from "Crossing… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“LADY LAZARUS I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it-- A sort of walking miracle, my skin… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York.” — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn. — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
... These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. ... --Lady Lazarus — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
Sure, I’m dramatic and sloppily semi-cynical and semi-sentimental. But, in leisure years I could grow and choose my way. Now I am living on… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn't see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“I couldn't stand the idea of a woman having to have a single pure life and a man being able to have a double… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
I saw the gooseflesh on my skin. I did not know what made it. I was not cold. Had a ghost passed over? No,… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“The city had faded my tan, though. I looked yellow as a Chinaman. Ordinarily, I would have been nervous about my dress and my… — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals. — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
“I have stitched life into me like a rare organ --from "Three Women: A Poem for Three Voices", written 1962” — Sylvia Plath Copy Share Image
