Authors:

A
B
C
D
E
F
G
H
I
J
K
L
M
N
O
P
Q
R
S
T
U
V
W
X
Y
Z

Sylvia Plath Quotes - Page 7

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

I am too pure for you or anyone.

I am too pure for you or anyone.

Feminism, Classic, Being A Woman

Sylvia Plath “Poemas”, Editora Iluminuras Ltda

I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.

Vision, Dull, Shattered

Sylvia Plath (2016). “The Bell Jar”, p.33, Hamilton Books

Worse even than your maddening song, your silence.

Song, Silence

Sylvia Plath (2011). “The Colossus: and Other Poems”, p.29, Vintage

I am still so naïve; I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary girl, maybe?

Girl, Who I Am, Passionate

Sylvia Plath (2007). “The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath”, p.165, Anchor

Love is the bone and sinew of my curse.

Love Is, Bones, Curse

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

But everybody has exactly the same smiling frightened face, with the look that says: "I'm important. If you only get to know me, you will see how important I am. Look into my eyes. Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.

Eye, Kissing, Important

Sylvia Plath (2007). “The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath”, p.197, Anchor

I may never be happy, but tonight I am content. Nothing more than an empty house, the warm hazy weariness from a day spent setting strawberry runners in the sun, a glass of cool sweet milk, and a shallow dish of blueberries bathed in cream. When one is so tired at the end of a day one must sleep, and at the next dawn there are more strawberry runners to set, and so one goes on living, near the earth. At times like this I'd call myself a fool to ask for more.

Happiness, Sweet, Tired

Sylvia Plath (2013). “The Journals of Sylvia Plath”, p.3, Anchor

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.

Roots, Do Not Fear, Bottom

Sylvia Plath (2010). “Ariel”, p.18, Faber & Faber

I sank back in the gray, plush seat and closed my eyes. The air of the bell jar wadded round me and I couldn't stir.

Eye, Air, Bells

Sylvia Plath (2016). “The Bell Jar”, p.94, Hamilton Books

I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.

World, Racehorses, Most Heartfelt

Sylvia Plath (2016). “The Bell Jar”, p.41, Hamilton Books

I ride earth's burning carousel. Day in, day out.

Burning, Earth, Carousels

I like people too much or not at all. I've got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.

Fall, People, Feminism

Sylvia Plath (2007). “The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath”, p.18, Anchor

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression Of something beautiful, but annihilating.

Beautiful, Moon, Impression

Sylvia Plath (2010). “Ariel”, p.45, Faber & Faber

So, now I shall talk every night. To myself. To the moon. I shall walk, as I did tonight, jealous of my loneliness, in the blue-silver of the cold moon, shining brilliantly on the drifts of fresh-fallen snow, with the myriad sparkles. I talk to myself and look at the dark trees, blessedly neutral. So much easier than facing people, than having to look happy, invulnerable, clever.

Clever, Loneliness, Jealous

Sylvia Plath (2007). “The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath”, p.200, Anchor

The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life.

Drunk, Scent, Magnolias

Sylvia Plath (2010). “Ariel”, p.69, Faber & Faber

I dream too much, work too little.

Dream, Littles, Too Much

Sylvia Plath (2011). “The Journals of Sylvia Plath”, p.542, Faber & Faber

Some pale, hueless flicker of sensitivity is in me. God, must I lose it in cooking scrambled eggs for a man.

Men, Eggs, Cooking

Sylvia Plath (2013). “The Journals of Sylvia Plath”, p.33, Anchor

Winning or losing an argument, receiving an acceptance or rejection, is no proof of the validity or value of personal identity. One may be wrong, mistaken, or a poor craftsman, or just ignorant - but this is no indication of the true worth of one's total human identity: past, present and future!

Acceptance, Winning, Past

Sylvia Plath (2007). “The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath”, p.205, Anchor

I must say what I admire most is the person who masters an area of practical experience, and can teach me something. I mean, my local midwife has taught me how to keep bees. Well, she can't understand anything I write. And I find myself liking her, may I say, more than most poets. And among my friends I find people who know all about boats or know all about certain sports, or how to cut somebody open and remove an organ. I'm fascinated by this mastery of the practical.

Sports, Writing, Mean

Source: www.english.illinois.edu

Please let him come, and give me the resilience & guts to make him respect me, be interested, and not to throw myself at him with loudness or hysterical yelling; calmly, gently, easy baby easy. He is probably strutting the backs among crocuses now with seven Scandinavian mistresses. And I sit, spiderlike, waiting, here, home; Penelope weaving webs of Webster, turning spindles of Tourneur. Oh, he is here; my black marauder; oh hungry hungry. I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love: I am here; I wait; and he plays on the banks of the river Cam like a casual faun.

Baby, Home, Rivers

Very depressed today. Unable to write a thing. Menacing gods. I feel outcast on a cold star, unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness.

Depression, Stars, Writing

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

My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing.

Habit, Worst, Destructive

Sylvia Plath (2011). “The Journals of Sylvia Plath”, p.430, Faber & Faber

I find that in a novel I can get more of life, perhaps not such intense life, but certainly more of life than in poetry.

Intense, Novel, I Can

Source: www.english.illinois.edu

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free—— The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.

Lying, Flower, Hands

The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call.

Art, Real, Suicidal

"Lady Lazarus" l. 43 (1963)

You May Also Like: