I see in Cambridge, particularly among the women dons, a series of such grotesques! It is almost like a caricature series from Dickens to see our head table at Newnham. Sylvia Plath cambridgecaricaturedicken Change image and share on social
Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing. Sylvia Plath pilestinkunpublished Change image and share on social
There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears. Sylvia Plath forgetgamehurt Change image and share on social
I have felt great advances in my poetry, the main one being a growing victory over word nuances and a superfluity of adjectives. Sylvia Plath adjectiveadvancefelt Change image and share on social
My mother's face floated to mind, a pale, reproachful moon, at her last and first visit to the asylum since my twentieth birthday. A daughter in an asylum! I had done that to her. Still, she had obviously decided to forgive me. Sylvia Plath asylumbirthdaydaughter share on social
If I tried to describe my personality, I'd start to gush about living by the ocean half my life and being brought up on 'Alice in Wonderland' and believing in magic for years and years. Sylvia Plath alicebelievebring Change image and share on social
I remember that as I was writing a poem on 'Snow' when I was eight, I said aloud, 'I wish I could have the ability to write down the feelings I have now when I am little, because when I grow up, I will know how to write, but I will have forgotten what being little feels like.' Sylvia Plath abilityaloudfeeling share on social
In London the day after Christmas (Boxing Day), it began to snow: my first snow in England. For five years, I had been tactfully asking, 'Do you ever have snow at all?' as I steeled myself to the six months of wet, tepid gray that make up an English winter. 'Ooo, I do remember snow,' was the usual reply, 'when I were a lad.' Sylvia Plath beginboxchristmas share on social
That is how it stiffens, my vision of that seaside childhood. My father died; we moved inland. Whereon those nine first years of my life sealed themselves off like a ship in a bottle - beautiful, inaccessible, obsolete: a fine, white, flying myth. Sylvia Plath beautifulbottlechildhood share on social
I don't believe that the meek will inherit the earth; The meek get ignored and trampled. Sylvia Plath earthinheritmeek Change image and share on social