You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn. Sylvia Plath More Quotes by Sylvia Plath More Quotes From Sylvia Plath The moon has nothing to be sad about, Sylvia Plath bones moon darkness I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrifying, like madness, being tortured...with an informed and intelligent mind. Sylvia Plath intelligent mind believe I fancied you'd return the way you said, Sylvia Plath names love thinking A little thing, like children putting flowers in my hair, can fill up the widening cracks in my self-assurance like soothing lanolin. Sylvia Plath flower hair children I do not know who I am, where I am going - and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions. Sylvia Plath hideous who-i-am answers I feel that very strongly: having been an academic, having been tempted by the invitation to stay on to become a Ph.D., a professor, and all that, one side of me certainly does respect all disciplines, as long as they don't ossify. Sylvia Plath discipline doe long 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. Sylvia Plath turns discipline space I suppose I'll always be over-vulnerable, slightly paranoid. Sylvia Plath paranoid chaos vulnerable You have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you. Sylvia Plath creative real inspirational I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit. I have none of the selfless love of my mother. I have none of the plodding, practical love. . . . . I am, to be blunt and concise, in love only with myself, my puny being with its small inadequate breasts and meager, thin talents. I am capable of affection for those who reflect my own world. Sylvia Plath selfless mother world What a man wants is a mate and what a woman wants is infinite security. Sylvia Plath infinite want men I am terrified by this dark thing That sleeps in me; All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity. Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart? I am incapable of more knowledge. What is this, this face So murderous in its strangle of branches? - Its snaky acids kiss. It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults That kill, that kill, that kill. Sylvia Plath dark sleep heart They would grow old. They would forget me. Sylvia Plath forget-me grows forget Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium. Sylvia Plath spiders my-heart heart I am disabused of all faith, and see too clearly. Sylvia Plath And I, love, am a pathological liar. Sylvia Plath pathological-liar liars Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it, or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to. Sylvia Plath important writing inspirational 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. Sylvia Plath writing sports mean I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrific, like madness, being tortured, this sort of experience, and one should be able to manipulate these experiences with an informed and an intelligent mini. Sylvia Plath able intelligent believe This is newness: every little tawdry Obstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar, Glinting and clinking in a saint's falsetto. Only you Don't know what to make of the sudden slippiness, The blind, white, awful, inaccessible slant. There's no getting up it by the words you know. No getting up by elephant or wheel or shoe. We have only come to look. You are too new To want the world in a glass hat. Sylvia Plath shoes elephants white
