Brave love, dream not of staunching such strict flame, but come, lean to my wound; burn on, burn on.

— Sylvia Plath

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

— Sylvia Plath

But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless 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 lot harder to get.

— Sylvia Plath

But women have lust, too. Why should they be relegated to the position of custodian of emotions, watcher of the infants, feeder of the soul, body and pride of man?

— Sylvia Plath

But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.

— Sylvia Plath

DADDY You do not do, you do not Donny more, black shoeing which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo. Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time―Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco Zealand a head in the freakish Atlantic When it pours bean green over blue In the waters of beautiful Nausea. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, Du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Pollack friend Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barbwire snare. Ich, ICH, ICH, ICH, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Nelsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Tarot pack and my Tarot pack may be a bit of a Jew. I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygook. And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You―Not God but a swastikas black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you. You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not And less the black man who Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you. At twenty, I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do. But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue. And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Mein Kampf look And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I’m finally through. The black telephone’s off at the root, The voices just can’t worm through. If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two―The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years, if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now. There’s a stake in your fat black heartland the villagers never like you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

— Sylvia Plath

Dancing is the normal prelude to intercourse

— Sylvia Plath

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.

— Sylvia Plath

Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. Furthermore, I do it so it feels real. Furthermore, I guess you could say I have a call.

— Sylvia Plath

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.

— Sylvia Plath