Quotes from Sylvia Plath

What word blue could get that dazzling drench of blue moonlight on the flat, luminous field of white snow, with the black trees against the sky, each with its particular configuration of branches? I felt shut in, imprisoned, aware that it was fine and shudderingly beautiful, but too gone with pain and aching to respond and become part of

S'ka më mirë se sa të vjellësh me dikë, të bën ta shohësh si një mik të vjetër.

The sun will diminish it soon enough: Each wave-tip glitters like a knife.

Well, after this Racine paper, this Ronsard-purgatory, this Sophocles, I shall write: letters and prose and poetry, toward the end of the week; I must be stoic till then.

it just seems that I am running on a purposeless treadmill, behind and paralyzed in science, dreading every day of the horrible year ahead when I should be reveling in my major.

Orice lucru în via?? e subiect de scris, dac? ai îndr?zneala s? o faci ÅŸi imaginaÅ£ie s? improvizezi. Cel mai mare duÅŸman al creativit??ii este îndoiala de sine.

I suppose if you can write sestinas which bam crash through lines and rules after having raped them to the purpose, then you can be satanic and smile like a cretin beelzebub.

The blood jet is poetry, There is no stopping it. 'Kindness' by Sylvia Plath

Then the worst happened, that big, dark, hunky boy, the only one there huge enough for me, who had been hunching around over women, and whose name I had asked the minute I had come into the room, but no one told me, came over and was looking hard in my eyes and it was Ted Hughes.

Now I know what the girl meant in Celia Amberley when she said: If he will kiss me, everything will be all right; I'll be pretty again.

Approaching his cottage By crooked detour, He hears the gruff knocking Of the wolf at the door. His wife and his children Hang riddled with shot, There's a hex on the cradle And death in the pot.

Never mind the three dimensions All is flat, and you not there.

The one man since I've lived who could blast Richard.

I was more conscious of being stared at on the balcony than of the typewriter in front of me. Now

B. will be home, all mine, and I'll be secure for a little. How we need that security! How we need another soul to cling to, another body to keep us warm. To rest and trust; to give your soul in confidence: I need this, I need someone to pour myself into. Maybe I need a man. One sure thing, I haven't met him yet...

Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship - but the loneliness of the soul in it's appalling self-consciousness, is horrible and overpowering.

Somehow these sluttish nights make me have a violent nunlike passion to write and sequester myself. I shall sequester. I don't want to see anybody because they are not Ted Hughes and I never have been made a fool of by a man.

I haven't had an acceptance since October 1st. And I have piles of poems and stories out. Not to mention my book of poems. Even Ted's letter about winning the contest, with its award details, hasn't come, so even vicarious pleasure is shorn from me. Bills come.

different as the animal with the touch of human hands about him when he returns to the herd

Hamish said: He is the biggest seducer in Cambridge.

a quiet large house with no interruptions, phone, or visitors;

I am writing with a blunt pencil tied on a mile-long stick, at something far off over the horizon line. Will I break through someday? At least if I get 300 pages written by the end of May, I'll have the creaking, gushing skeleton plot of the whole thing.

the ugliness which by man's sense of wishful thinking becomes a beauty touching us all

Dio, la vita non è proprio altro che solitudine, malgrado tutti gli oppiacei, malgrado la stridula, posticcia allegria delle feste senza scopo, malgrado il sorriso falso che tutti indossiamo. E quando infine trovi qualcuno in cui senti di poter riversare la tua anima, ti blocchi di colpo davanti alle tue stesse parole-le hai tenute dentro così a lungo, contratte nel buio, che sono ormai sbiadite, brutte, banali, fiacche.