Quotes from Sylvia Plath

All morning the Morning has been blackening, A flower left out. My bones hold a stillness, the far Fields melt my heart. They threaten To let me through to a heaven Starless and fatherless, a dark water.

Doesn't your work interest you, Esther? You know, Esther, you've got the perfect setup of a true neurotic. You'll never get anywhere like that, you'll never get anywhere like that, you'll never get anywhere like that.

Water will run by rule; the actual sun / Will scrupulously rise and set; / No little man lives in the exacting moon / And that is that, is that, is that.

The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren. Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.

Slowly I swam up from the bottom of a black sleep.

Rain on roof outside window, gray light, deep covers and warm blankets. Rain and nip of autumn in air; nostalgia, itch to work better and bigger. That crisp edge of autumn.

I shall move north. I shall move into a long blackness. I see myself as a shadow, neither man nor woman, Neither woman, happy to be like a man, nor a man Blunt and flat enough to feel no lack. I feel a lack. I hold my fingers up, ten white pickets. See, the darkness is leaking from the cracks. I cannot contain it. I cannot contain my life.

Remember how you asked me where would I like to live best, the country or the city? And you said... And I said I wanted to live in the country and in the city both?

Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don't want to die.

You felt no reality. Only a weariness, a longing for a shoulder to sleep on, a pair of arms to curl up in — and a lack of that now.

I stared at Buddy while he unzipped his chino pants and took them off and laid them on a chair and then took off his underpants that were made of something like nylon fishnet. "They're cool," he explained, "and my mother says they wash easily." Then he just stood there in front of me and I kept on staring at him. The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed. Buddy seemed hurt I didn't say anything.

I reckon a good poem lasts a whole lot longer than a hundred of those people put together.

I thought it would be easy, lying in the tub and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank to sleep under a surface gaudy as poppies.

The child's cry Melts in the wall. And I Am the arrow, The dew that flies Suicidal, at one with the drive Into the red Eye, the cauldron of morning.

You are twenty. You are not dead, although you were dead. The girl who died. And was resurrected. Children. Witches. Magic. Symbols. Remember the illogic of the fantasy.

Their hands and faces stiff with holiness. The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild. And the message of the yew tree is blackness--blackness and silence.

Evde de karn?m?z doymuyor deÄŸildi ama büyükannem, piÅŸirdiÄŸi ucuz et yemeklerinin daha ilk lokmas?n? aÄŸz?m?za götürürken, Umar?m beÄŸenirsiniz, ÅŸunun yar?m kilosuna tam k?rk bir sent verdim, deme al??kanl???na sahipti, ben de o zaman bir pazar günü rostosu yerine madeni paralar? yiyormuÅŸum duygusuna kap?l?rd?m.

I wanted to tell her that if only something were wrong with my body it would be fine, I would rather have anything wrong with my body than something wrong with my head

It's the living, the eating, the sleeping that everyone needs. Ideas don't matter so much after all.

I'm a riddle in nine syllables, An elephant, a ponderous house, A melon strolling on two tendrils. O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers! This loaf's big with its yeasty rising. Money's new-minted in this fat purse. I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf. I've eaten a bag of green apples, Boarded the train there's no getting off.

On the train: staring hypnotized at the blackness outside the window, feeling the incomparable rhythmic language of the wheels, clacking out nursery rhymes, summing up moments of the mind like the chant of a broken record: god is dead, god is dead. going, going, going. and the pure bliss of this, the erotic rocking of the coach. France splits open like a ripe fig in the mind; we are raping the land, we are not stopping.

White Godiva, I unpeel -- Dead hands, dead stringencies.

When I was nineteen, pureness was the great issue. Instead of the world being divided up into Catholics and Protestants, or Republicans and Democrats, or white men and black men, or even men and women, I saw the world divided into people who had slept with somebody and people who hadn't; and this seemed the only really significant difference between one person and another.

This month is fit for little. The dead ripen in the grapeleaves. A red tongue is among us. Mother, keep out of my barnyard, I am becoming another. Dog-head, devourer: Feed me the berries of dark. The lids won't shut. Time Unwinds from the great umbilicus of the sun its endless glitter. I must swallow it all. Lady, who are those others in the moons' vat- Sleepdrunk, their limbs at odds? In this light the blood is black. Tell me my name.