Quotes from Sylvia Plath

she) ends up steering New York like her own private car.

The sheep know where they are, Browsing in their dirty wool-clouds, Gray as the weather. The black slots of their pupils take me in. It is like being mailed into space, A thin, silly message. They stand about in grandmotherly disguise, All wig curls and yellow teeth And hard, marbly baas.

you don't want to live just one life, which could be typed, which could be tossed off in a thumbnail sketch = "She was the sort of girl …." And end in 25 words or less. You want to live as many lives as you can …

She personifies the word cute. She is Cinderella and Wendy and Snow White.

There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds:

I would spend my whole time writing on some obscure theme in the works of James Joyce.

The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God, Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.

They are good evidence to prove that poems which seem often to be constructed of arbitrary surreal symbols are really impassioned reorganizations of relevant fact.

God, what a life - living in the future and the past and existing merely in the present.

Olmak istediÄŸim her ÅŸey olmak, yaÅŸamak, bütün hayatlar? yaÅŸamak mümkün deÄŸil. Ä°stediÄŸim bütün yetenekleri geliÅŸtirmem mümkün deÄŸil.Ä°stememin sebebi ne peki? Hayat?mda, olas? bütün zihinsel ve fiziksel deneyimlerin her bir rengini, tonunu ve her çesidini yaÅŸamak istiyorum.

There was more small talk, more laughing, sidelong glances, more of the unspoken physical friction that makes each new conquest so delightful. In the air was the strong smell of masculinity which creates the ideal medium for me to exist in. There was something in Emile tonight, a touch of seriousness, a chemical magnetism, that met my mood the way two pieces of a child's puzzle fit together.

There are times when a feeling of expectancy comes to me, as if something is there, beneath the surface of my understanding, waiting for me to grasp it. It is the same tantalizing sensation when you almost remember a name, but don't quite reach it.

A faith, naive and child like perhaps, born as it is from the infinite simplicity of nature. It is a feeling that no matter what the ideas or conduct of others, there is a unique rightness and beauty to life which can be shared in openness, in wind and sunlight, with a fellow human being who believes in the same basic principles.

I need a father, I need a mother, I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God but the sky is empty.

enjoying the pressure of reading, thinking, while at my back is always the mocking tick: A Life is Passing. My Life.

The body is amazingly stubborn when it comes to sacrificing itself to the annihilating directions of the mind.

Tomorrow what? Always patching masks, making excuses for having read a bare half of what I purposed. Yet a life is passing?

Las letras surgen de estas teclas negras, y estas teclas negras Surgen de mis dedos alfabéticos, ordenando partes, Partes, pedazos, piezas, múltiplos brillantes. Aquí, cada vez que me siento, muero. Pierdo una dimensión.

134 Parliament Hill Fields On this bald hill the new year hones its edge. Faceless and pale as china The round sky goes on minding its business. Your absence is inconspicuous; Nobody can tell what I lack.

For me," she wrote, "poetry is an evasion from the real job of writing prose." Throughout

I have the choice of being active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.

I must write about the things of the world with no glazing." She fought doggedly against the great suction into her own subjectivity: "I shall perish if I can write about no one but myself." Something like this went through nearly every entry in her journal over long periods. In

It is quite conversational sounding in spite of the elaborate 7-line pentameter stanzas rhyming ababcbc and is more ambitious than anything I've ever done, although I feel to be doing it like a patchwork quilt, without anything more than the general idea it should come out a rectangular shape, but not seeing how the logical varicolored pieces should fit.

If you only knew how the veils were killing my days. To you they are only transparencies, clear air.