Is she dead, is she sleeping?
(Stings)
More Quotes from Sylvia Plath:
What did my heart do, with its love?Sylvia Plath
Where the yew trees blow like hydras,
The tree of life and the tree of life
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've a call.
Sylvia Plath
Walks there not some such one man
As can spare breath
To patch with brand of love this rank grimace
Which out from black tarn, ditch and cup
Into my most chaste own eyes
Looks up.
Sylvia Plath
Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.
Sylvia Plath
I am incapable of more knowledge.
Sylvia Plath
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