Top 83 Quotes by Sylvia Plath

About Sylvia Plath

These are some quotes by American author Sylvia Plath Poet, who lived between October 27, 1932 and February 11, 1963.

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

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

Sylvia Plath

Arrogant, I think I have written lines which qualify me to be The Poetess of America (as Ted will be The Poet of England and her dominions).

Arrogant, I think I have written lines which qualify me to be The Poetess of America (as Ted will be The Poet of England and her dominions).

Sylvia Plath

Mountains terrify me - they just sit about; they are so proud.

Mountains terrify me - they just sit about; they are so proud.

Sylvia Plath

I have a visual imagination.

I have a visual imagination.

Sylvia Plath

A little thing, like children putting flowers in my hair, can fill up the widening cracks in my self-assurance like soothing lanolin.

A little thing, like children putting flowers in my hair, can fill up the widening cracks in my self-assurance like soothing lanolin.

Sylvia Plath

I pass by people, grazing them on the edges, and it bothers me. I've got to admire someone to really like them deeply - to value them as friends.

I pass by people, grazing them on the edges, and it bothers me. I've got to admire someone to really like them deeply - to value them as friends.

Sylvia Plath

I saw the first of the 7-mile-long column appear - red and orange and green banners, 'Ban the Bomb!' etc., shining and swaying slowly. Absolute silence. I found myself weeping to see the tan, dusty marchers, knapsacks on their backs - Quakers and Catholics, Africans and whites, Algerians and French - 40 percent were London housewives.

Sylvia Plath

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

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

Sylvia Plath

Widow. The word consumes itself.

Widow. The word consumes itself.

Sylvia Plath

For a time, I believed not in God nor Santa Claus, but in mermaids. They seemed as logical and possible to me as the brittle twig of a seahorse in the zoo aquarium or the skates lugged up on the lines of cursing Sunday fishermen - skates the shape of old pillowslips with the full, coy lips of women.

Sylvia Plath

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