Quotes from Sylvia Plath

Dar eu nu m? m?ritam. Trebuia s? existe, îmi spuneam eu, un ritual pentru când te n??teai a doua oar?, vulcanizat, reÈ™apat È™i gata de drum.

I can't be satisfied with the colossal job of merely living.

Once they'd even brought the minister of the Unitarian church, whom I'd never really liked at all. He was terribly nervous the whole time, and I could tell he thought I was crazy as a loon, because I told him I believed in hell, and that certain people, like me, had to live in hell before they died, to make up for missing out on it after death, since they didn't believe in life after death, and what each person believed happened to him when he died.

I'm very interested in everything. The words fell with a hollow flatness on to Jay Cee's desk, like so many wooden nickels.

The frost makes a flower, the dew makes a star.

Cuanto más incurable se vuelve, más lejos lo esconden a uno.

Why honey, don't you want to get dressed? My mother took care never to tell me to do anything. She would only reason with me sweetly, like one intelligent, mature person with another.

Buddy Willard was a hypocrite. Of course, I didn't know he was a hypocrite at first. I thought he was the most wonderful boy I'd ever seen. I'd adored him from a distance for five years before he even looked at me, and then there was a beautiful time when I still adored him and he started looking at me, and then just as he was looking at me more and more I discovered quite by accident what an awful hypocrite he was, and now he wanted me to marry him and I hated his guts.

There's a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

How I would like to believe in tenderness The face of the effigy, gentled by candles, Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

The thing about writing is not to talk, but to do it; no matter how bad or even mediocre it is, the process and production is the thing, not the sitting and theorizing about how one should write ideally, or how well one could write if one really wanted to or had the time. As Mr. Kazin told me: 'You don't write to support yourself; you work to support your writing.

After all, I am alive only by accident.

I would rather be a mediocre writer than a bad actress.

Thoughts that found a maze of mermaid hair Tangling in the tide's green fall Now fold their wings like bats and disappear Into the attic of the skull.

As an act recedes into the past and becomes imbedded in the network of one's individuality it seems more and more a product of fate - - inevitable. However, an act in the immediate present seems to be more a product of free will.

I've been wondering... I mean, I thought you might be able to tell me something. Buddy met my eyes and I saw, for the first time, how he had changed. Instead of the old, sure smile that flashed on easily and frequently as a photographer's bulb, his face was grave, even tentative -- the face of a man who often does not get what he wants. I'll tell you if I can, Buddy. Do you think there's something in me that drives women crazy?

Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?

I saw the years of my life spaced along a road in the form of telephone poles, threaded together by wires. I counted one, two, three . . . nineteen telephone poles, and then the wires dangled into space, and try as

We'll take up where we left off, Esther', she had said, with her sweet martyr's smile. 'We'll act as if all this were a bad dream.' A bad dream. To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream. A bad dream. I remembered everything. ... Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.

You leave the same impression of something beautiful, but annihilating. Both of you are great light borrowers.

There are a few times when the songs that are written, the poems that are written, the plays that are written, come alive. By accident you fall onto a stage-set put aside for a tragedy for the lesser gods, and you utter words that were in the script written in the leaves and in the grass for some heroic cast.

curled in the cavernous leather chair and faced Doctor Gordon across an acre of highly polished desk. Doctor

It flew straight down

Yo lo recordaba todo. (...) Quizá el olvido, como una bondadosa nieve, los entumeciera y los cubriera. Pero eran parte de mí. Eran m paisaje.