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Sylvia Plath
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.
You are in my guts and I am acting because you are alive.
I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest.
State of mind most important for work. A blithe, itchy eager state where the poem itself, the story itself is supreme.
I could not want him so much if I did not become so stimulated by his brilliant thinking mind.
I wanted to tell you how you are beginning to be the one I can talk to.
I won’t call you darling: that would be cute. And I’m not being cute, not tonight.
I am hypnotized by the workings of the individual, alone, and am continually using myself as a specimen.
I love people. Everybody. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection.
And yet, without being vague and star-eyed, I may say that a kiss may be a physical symbol of a mental adoration. That, and a delight.
I sat listlessly on my porch at home, crying over the way summer would not come again - never the same.
The eyes and the faces all turned themselves towards me, and guiding myself by them, as by a magical thread, I stepped into the room.
No matter how much you knelt and prayed, you still had to eat three meals a day and have a job and live in the world.
I've had my chances & tried & tried. I have stitched life into me like a rare organ and walked carefully, precariously, like something rare.
The big men are all deaf; they don't want to hear the little squeaking as they walk across the street in cleated boots.
I must get back my soul from you; I am killing my flesh without it.
I am solitary as grass.
I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come.
Sometimes I feel so stupid and dull and uncreative that I am amazed when people tell me differently.
The darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.
August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
Never mind whose got a better or worse body and mind, but stretch yours as far as you can.
Love life day by day, color by color, touch by touch.
The voices of loneliness, the voices of sorrow, lap at my back ineluctably.
Your room is not your prison. You are.
Here I am, a bundle of past recollections and future dreams, knotted up in a reasonably attractive bundle of flesh.
I am caught in musing - how life is a swift motion, a continuous flowing, changing, and how one is always saying goodbye.
All boys and girls are lovely in youth and adolescence; we were.
This dark ceiling without a star.
Such a minute fraction of this life do we live.
I need not to be more with others, but to be more & more deeply, richly alone. Recreating worlds.
You have to be able to make a real creative life for yourself before you can expect anyone else to provide one ready-made for you.
The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over.
I feel that even if I washed myself all day in cold clear water, I could not rinse the sticky, untidy film away.
I want to taste and glory in each day, and never be afraid to experience pain; and never shut myself up in a numb core of nonfeeling.
Worship this world of watercolor mood, in glass pagodas hung with veils of green.
And now the world conceives its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
It's the living, the eating, the sleeping that everyone needs. Ideas don't matter so much after all.
The loneliness of the soul in its appalling self-consciousness is horrible and overpowering.
Is there no way out of the mind?
One thing, I try to be honest. And what is revealed is often rather hideously unflattering.
In your new and horrible independence you feel that the cards have been stacked high against you, and that they are still being heaped up.
A summer calm laid its soothing hand over everything, like death.