What is so real as the cry of a child? A rabbit's cry may be wilder But it has no soul. Sylvia Plath More Quotes by Sylvia Plath More Quotes From Sylvia Plath There ought, I thought, to be a ritual for being born twice - patched, retreaded and approved for the road. Sylvia Plath bell-jarritualborn I have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have. Sylvia Plath living-my-life Living with him is like being told a perpetual story: his mind is the biggest, most imaginative I have ever met. I could live in its growing countries forever. Sylvia Plath mindforevercountry At this rate, I'd be lucky if I wrote a page a day. Then I knew what the problem was. I needed experience. How could I write about life when I'd never had a love affair or a baby or even seen anybody die? A girl I knew had just won a prize for a short story about her adventures among the pygmies in Africa. How could I compete with that sort of thing? Sylvia Plath girlwritingbaby I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn’t taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallowers’ sword and made me feel powerful and godlike. Sylvia Plath powerfuldrinkingthinking 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? Sylvia Plath passionatewho-i-amgirl Is there no way out of the mind? Sylvia Plath feminismfrustrationmind Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? Sylvia Plath little-loveunderstand-melittles I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. Sylvia Plath variationtonewant ..I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.) Sylvia Plath eyespringthinking 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. Sylvia Plath bellseyeair I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant loosing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet. Sylvia Plath wrinklesfeettree I want to be important. By being different. And these girls are all the same. Sylvia Plath being-differentgirlimportant Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing. Sylvia Plath stinksuccesswriting Is anyone anywhere happy? Sylvia Plath happiness There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends. Sylvia Plath funny-best-friendinspiringfriendship Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children. Sylvia Plath terribleperfectionchildren All the heat and fear had purged itself. I felt surprisingly at peace. The bell jar hung suspended a few feet above my head. I was open to the circulating air. Sylvia Plath bellsairfeet 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. Sylvia Plath kissingimportanteye My thoughts are crabbed and sallow, Sylvia Plath broken-heartstarssummer
