A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage. Sylvia Plath More Quotes by Sylvia Plath More Quotes From Sylvia Plath 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. Sylvia Plath unique wind believe 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. Sylvia Plath home rivers baby Good to know that if I ever need attention all I have to do is die. Sylvia Plath knows attention needs I began to see why woman-haters could make such fools of women. Woman-haters were like gods: invulnerable and chock full of power. They descended, and then they disappeared. You could never catch one. Sylvia Plath women fool inspirational The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it. Sylvia Plath stopping blood reality So you got rid of your astonishment that someone could write so much more dynamically than you. You stopped cherishing your aloneness and poetic differentness to your delicately flat little bosom. You said: she's to good to forget. How about making her a friend and competitor — you could learn alot from her. So you'll try. So maybe she'll laugh in your face. So maybe she'll beat you hollow in the end. So anyhow, you'll try, and maybe, possibly, she can stand you. Here's hoping! Sylvia Plath writing trying laughing ...we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real. Sylvia Plath stars real islands I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual. Sylvia Plath mutual care feelings If you pluck out my heart To find what makes it move, You’ll halt the clock That syncopates our love. Sylvia Plath our-love heart moving The claw of the magnolia, drunk on its own scents, asks nothing of life. Sylvia Plath magnolias scent drunk Is to throw together events from my own life, fictionalizing to add color—it’s a pot boiler really, but I think it will show how isolated a person feels when he is suffering a breakdown . . . I’ve tried to picture my world and the people in it as seen through the distorting lens of a bell jar. Sylvia Plath color people thinking 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. Sylvia Plath mad play people The tulips are too red...they hurt me. Sylvia Plath hurt-me red hurt My worst habit is my fear & my destructive rationalizing. Sylvia Plath worst destructive habit I am made, crudely, for success. Sylvia Plath bell-jar made I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralyzed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness. Sylvia Plath feminism pits eye What I cannot forgive is dishonesty - and no matter what, or how hard, I would rather know the truth of which I today had such a clear & devastating vision from his mouth than hear foul evasions, blurrings and rattiness. Sylvia Plath forgiving vision mouths This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue. Sylvia Plath light blue tree 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. Sylvia Plath new-york dark heart 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. Sylvia Plath reading people thinking
