Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.

— Sylvia Plath

The most sensitive Sylvia Plath quotes that will activate your inner potential

I ride earth's burning carousel. Day in, day out.


If I didn’t think, I’d be much happier.


What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.


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


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.


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.


If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I'm neurotic as hell.


Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.


Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still.

No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those.


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


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


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.


About Sylvia Plath

Quotes 641 sayings
Nationality American
Profession Poet
Birthday October 16

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.


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


I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.


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.


The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.


Widow. The word consumes itself.


because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.


Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?


But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defensless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.


Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.


To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.


Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.


When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It's gone forever.


I want to taste and glory in each day, and never be afraid to experience pain;

and never shut myself up in a numb core of nonfeeling, or stop questioning and criticizing life and take the easy way out. To learn and think: to think and live; to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.


Backward we traveled to reclaim the day Before we fell, like Icarus, undone;

All we find are altars in decay And profane words scrawled black across the sun.


There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.


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


Stars open among the lilies. Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens? This is the silence of astounded souls.


I wonder why I don't go to bed and go to sleep.

But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide that no matter how tired, no matter how incoherent I am, I can skip on hour more of sleep and live.


The hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted & spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.


The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.


Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn.


I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.


August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.


Let me live, love and say it well in good sentences.


There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.


I am jealous of those who think more deeply, who write better, who draw better, who ski better, who look better, who live better, who love better than I.


Intoxicated with madness, I'm in love with my sadness


And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.


Apparently, the most difficult feat for a Cambridge male is to accept a woman not merely as feeling, not merely as thinking, but as managing a complex, vital interweaving of both.


Is there no way out of the mind?


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


We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.


Love set you going like a fat gold watch.

The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry Took its place among the elements.


I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print, the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig-tree.


I talk to God but the sky is empty.


So learn about life. Cut yourself a big slice with the silver server, a big slice of pie. Open your eyes. Let life happen.