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Sylvia Plath Quotes - Page 19

All Quotes Age Art Bones Chaos Character Children College Cooking Darkness Depression Desire Discipline Doubt Earth Emptiness Fate Fear Feelings Feminism Fighting Giving Gold Happiness Hate Heart Hell Home Hurt Illness Inspirational Joy Kissing Life Loneliness Love Love Life Lying Madness Mask Mental Illness Moon Morning Pain Past Rain Reading Rejection Responsibility Running Sad Sadness Sickness Silence Silver Skins Sleep Soul Spring Summer Understanding Vision Waiting Wall Water Winter Writing

Winter is for women The woman still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanish walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.

Winter is for women The woman still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanish walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.

Winter, Thinking, Knitting

1962 'Wintering', published posthumously byTed Hughes (Ariel, 1965).

But I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure at all. How did I know that someday―at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere―the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn't descend again?

College, Europe, Bells

Sylvia Plath (2016). “The Bell Jar”, p.124, Hamilton Books

When I fell out of the light, I entered The stomach of indifference, the wordless cupboard.

Light, Numbness, Emptiness

Sylvia Plath (2010). “The Colossus”, p.72, Faber & Faber

But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it.

Suicide, White, Skins

Sylvia Plath (2016). “The Bell Jar”, p.75, Hamilton Books

I think if I had done anything else I would like to have been a doctor. This is the sort of polar opposition to being a writer, I suppose.

Thinking, Doctors, Done

Source: www.english.illinois.edu

As from a star I saw, coldly and soberly, the separateness of everything. I felt the wall of my skin; I am I. That stone is a stone. My beautiful fusion with the things of this world was over.

Beautiful, Stars, Wall

Sylvia Plath (1994). “Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams”

I felt wise and cynical as all hell.

Wise, Cynical, Hell

Sylvia Plath (2016). “The Bell Jar”, p.6, Hamilton Books

What is so real as the cry of a child?

Children, Real, Cry

Sylvia Plath (2010). “Ariel”, p.72, Faber & Faber

If I have a dry spell ... I wait and live harder, eyes, ears, and heart open, and when the productive time comes, it is that much richer.

Heart, Eye, Waiting

Sylvia Plath (2011). “Letters Home”, p.314, Faber & Faber

What I want back is what I was Before the bed, before the knife, Before the brooch-pin and the salve Fixed me in this parenthesis; Horses fluent in the wind, A place, a time gone out of mind.

Horse, Wind, Knives

Sylvia Plath (2010). “The Colossus”, p.10, Faber & Faber

I've eaten a bag of Green apples. Boarded the train, there's no getting off

Apples, Bags, Green

Sylvia Plath (2015). “Collected Poems”, p.102, Faber & Faber

I love the people,' I said. 'I have room in me for love, and for ever so many little lives.

People, Littles, Rooms

Sylvia Plath (2007). “The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath”, p.22, Anchor

I had always imagined myself hitching up on to my elbows on the delivery table after it was all over - dead white, of course, with no makeup and from the awful ordeal, but smiling and radiant, with my hair down to my waist, and reaching out for my first little squirmy child and saying its name, whatever it was.

Children, Makeup, Hair

Sylvia Plath (2016). “The Bell Jar”, p.36, Hamilton Books

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing, which remark I guess shows I still don't have a pure motive (O it's-such-fun-I-just-can't-stop-who-cares-if-it's-published-or-read) about writing.

Fun, Writing, Who Cares

sylvia plath (1971). “the bell jar”

I didn't know shorthand either. This meant I couldn't get a good job after college. My mother kept telling me nobody wanted a plain English major. But an English major who knew shorthand would be something else again. Everybody would want her. She would be in demand among all the up-and-coming young men and she would transcribe letter after thrilling letter. The trouble was, I hated the idea of serving men in any way. I wanted to dictate my own thrilling letters.

Mother, Jobs, College

Outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. I look down into the warm, earthy world. Into a nest of lovers' beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life in this earth, and feel apart, enclosed in a wall of glass.

Baby, Stars, Wall

Sylvia Plath (2000). “The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950-1962”, Anchor

You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.

Baby, Space, Barns

Sylvia Plath (2010). “Ariel: The Restored Edition”, p.55, Faber & Faber

Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.

New York, Heart, Dark

Sylvia Plath (2016). “The Bell Jar”, p.59, Hamilton Books

The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out.

Play, People, Mad

Sylvia Plath (2016). “The Bell Jar”, p.79, Hamilton Books

I am made, crudely, for success.

Bell Jar, Made

Sylvia Plath (2013). “The Journals of Sylvia Plath”, p.220, Anchor

The tulips are too red...they hurt me.

Hurt, Red, Hurt Me

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

Light, Blue, Tree

Sylvia Plath (2015). “Collected Poems”, p.153, Faber & Faber

I do feel that now and I feel that this development of recording poems, of speaking poems at readings, of having records of poets, I think this is a wonderful thing. I'm very excited by it. In a sense, there's a return, isn't there, to the old role of the poet, which was to speak to a group of people, to come across.

Reading, Thinking, People

Source: www.english.illinois.edu

The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone. She is used to this sort of thing. Her blacks crackle and drag.

Moon, Darkness, Bones

Sylvia Plath (2015). “Collected Poems”, p.224, Faber & Faber

Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline, you've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space that you've just got to turn away all the peripherals.

Space, Discipline, Turns

Source: www.english.illinois.edu

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