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Sylvia Plath
I fancied you'd return the way you said, but I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little?
Where do you stash your life? Is it a penny, a pearl - Your soul, your soul? I'll carry it off like a rich pretty girl.
But they pulled me out of the sack, and they put me back together with glue.
I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.
I am so busy keeping my head above water that I scarcely know who I am, much less who anyone else is.
I couldn’t stand the idea of a woman having to have a single pure life and a man being able to have a double life, one pure and one not.
I want to talk to everybody as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.
What inner murder or prison-break must I commit if I want to speak from my true deep voice in writing?
Why is crying so pleasurable? I feel clean, absolutely purged after it. As if I had a grief to get over with, some deep sorrow.
@itssylviaplath "...stifle yourself by falling headfirst into a bowl of cookie batter"
Retweeted by Sylvia Plath
It's a hell of a responsibility to be yourself. It's much easier to be somebody else or nobody at all.
I only wanted to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is... the peacefulness is so big it dazes you.
Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it.
Here I am, a bundle of past recollections and future dreams, knotted up in a reasonably attractive bundle of flesh.
If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression of something beautiful, but annihilating.
How frail the human heart must be - a throbbing pulse, a trembling thing - a fragile instrument of crystal which can either weep, or sing.
I have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.
These 3 YA books all feature Sylvia Plath in some way. Check 'em out:
Retweeted by Sylvia Plath
I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.
I, to you, am lost in the gorgeous errors of flesh.
We all in this world need something to cling to for a center of calm.
Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me.
Delude yourself about printed islands of permanence. You've only got so long to live.
I am myself. That is not enough.
How deep they drove themselves into me, the things it was impossible to say aloud.
When I stepped out at last and wrapped myself in one of the big, soft white hotel bath-towels I felt pure and sweet as a new baby.
Where do they hide the young, tender years?
I am already in another world - or between two worlds, one dead, the other dying to be born.
I wonder why I don’t go to bed and go to sleep. But then it would be tomorrow, so I decide I can skip an hour more of sleep and live.
It's as if all my senses fed involuntarily on him and deprived for more than a few hours, I languish, wither, die to the world.
Feed me the berries of dark.
If you expect nothing from anybody, you're never disappointed.
Next year I will not be the self of this year now. And that is why I laugh at the transient, the ephemeral.
Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?
But they were part of me. They were my landscape.
I like people too much or not at all.
I have never been so pure.
One never reaches the future but always stays in the present — like the White Queen who had to run like the wind to remain in the same spot.
I must find a strong potential powerful mate who can counter my vibrant dynamic self: sexual and intellectual.
When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn't want it, you cannot take it back. It’s gone forever.
Yet I liked him too much - way too much, and I ripped him out of my heart so it wouldn't get to hurt me more than it did.
How can I ever find that permanence, that continuity with past and future, that communication with other human beings that I crave?
I like theater, books, concerts, paintings, travel– all of which cost more than intangible dreams can buy.
I am so disgusted with my mentality. I am not deep, I don’t work, I revel and go lax with physical comforts.
Your body hurts me as the world hurts God.
I am learning how to compromise the wild dream ideals and the necessary realities without such screaming pain.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed. And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
I cry mercy and back away, frozen. I am in black, dressed more and more often in black now.