The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
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Sylvia Plath
Sylvia Plath (/plæθ/; October 27, 1932 – February 11, 1963) was an American poet, novelist, and short story writer. Born in Boston, she studied at Smith College and Newnham College at the University of Cambridge before receiving acclaim as a poet and writer. She was married to fellow poet Ted Hughes from 1956 until they separated in September 1962. They lived together in the United States and then in England and had two children, Frieda and Nicholas. Plath was clinically depressed for most of her adult life, which was treated multiple times with electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). She committed suicide in 1963. Plath is credited with advancing the genre of confessional poetry and is best known for her two published collections, The Colossus and Other Poems and Ariel. She also wrote The Bell Jar, a semi-autobiographical novel published shortly before her death. In 1982, she won a posthumous Pulitzer Prize for The Collected Poems. 2Life and career 3Early life Plath was born on October 27, 1932, in Boston's Jamaica Plain neighborhoo
And so it seems I must always write you letters that I can never send.
I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.
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.
You are a dream; I hope I never meet you.
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. My love’s not impersonal yet not wholly subjective either. I would like to be everyone, a cripple, a dying man, a [woman], and…
It is awful to want to go away and to want to go nowhere.
I love my rejection slips. They show me I try.
And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter - they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.
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.
If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.
I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.
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.
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 would like to be everyone, a cripple, a dying man, a whore, and then come back to write about my thoughts, my emotions, as that…
Kiss me and you will see how important I am.
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.
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 my life. And I…
What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.